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The Sacred Cup 


BY 

VINCENT BROWN 

AUTHOR OF “ A MAGDALEN’s HUSBAND ” 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Ebe ftnichecbocker ptese 

1906 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
T\(W) CodIos Received 


FEB 12 1906 



Copyright, 1905, by 
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


Copyright, 1906, by 
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
(For Revised Edition) 


t « 


Ubc Iftnfcfecrbocftcr iprcss, *Wcw l^orfe 


The Sacred Cup 



THE SACRED CUP 


CHAPTER I 

If Mr. Jerred, dreaming open-eyed dreams about the 
Church Militant here on earth, had not loitered amid 
the haunted silences of the cathedral, and afterwards 
in the deserted cloisters, he would have been in good 
time for his appointment with the Bishop. He forgot, 
not where he was, but why he was there. His sur- 
roundings gave him the mood of reverential wonder; 
he felt, quite humbly, that he was in the great tradi- 
tion, the heir of the spiritual and ecclesiastical ages; he 
had read about the cathedral in many books, things of 
fact and things of legend, and he had heard its bells 
far away in his lonely parish among the hills, but 
nothing could give him the atmosphere ot these 
ancient, hallowed precincts. There was here the note 
of sanctity, a note to which Mr. Jerred was very sus- 
ceptible, as all men are who do not know that they 
themselves possess it. 

Still forgetting the Bishop, who was to him never- 
theless a personage of almost supernatural importance, 


1 


2 


The Sacred Cup 

he came at last to a large prison-like door, over which 
the arms of the See were cut in stone This, he sup- 
posed, was the entrance to the palace, but he could not 
feel sure, as there were many buildings round Munt- 
ham cathedral, and they were all very old, and 
stately, and sleepy. Mr. Jerred did not doubt that it 
was a decorous, chastened, becoming sleepiness; he 
never criticised Church dignitaries, though he had 
smiled at Arnold Karnes’s high-spirited comments 
upon them. 

There was no bell, and no knocker; the door seemed 
to be shut very tight, like an obstinate man’s mouth 
when he has said his final word and is not going to 
listen to any appeal for pity. Mr. Jerred felt amost 
ashamed of himself that anything about the cathedral 
should give him so harsh an impression. This was his 
first visit to the Bishop, and he would have had other 
thoughts had he known that he stood before the pre- 
late’s private door, by which commonly no one else 
was allowed to enter. It would not have occurred 
to Mr. Jerred to keep a special door for himself; and 
he would scarcely have felt comfortable on that tower- 
ing throne of wondrous carved work in the cathedral. 
But this only tells us what we may already have 
guessed, that Mr. Jerred was not born to be a bishop. 

He looked at his watch and was alarmed to see that 
it was nearly three minutes past the appointed hour. 
He lifted up his walking-stick and knocked, not 
boldly, but he hoped sufiiciently, on the formidable 


3 


The Sacred Cup 

door. Then he gazed at it with tremulous patience 
until it was opened a servant in livery. 

'' I beg your pardon. Is the Bishop at home? 

Yes, sir. His lordship is in the palace.” 

The answer sounded strange: Mr. Jerred did not 
know why. He gave his name. But the servant, his 
manner expressive of astonishment, stood in the door- 
way as though to prevent him from entering. Again 
Mr. Jerred was at a loss ; perhaps he had given offence 
by coming to see the Bishop in muddy boots ; he was 
sorry the roads had been heavy from the March rains, 
and was ready to apologise. He looked about for a 
scraper, but nothing of that sort was needed there, all 
the paths being paved with stone. And then, as the 
servant neither spoke nor moved, Mr. Jerred took from 
his coat-tail pocket a large red handkerchief, and wiped 
from his cheek a drop of water which the cold winds 
had wrung from his eye. 

I am the Rector of Lamberfield. The Bishop 
wishes to see me.” 

And now Mr. Jerred blew his nose. It was a trum- 
pet-like sound for so small a man; Arnold Karnes said 
he was incapable of doing anything violent except the 
blowing of his nose, and his housekeeper, sharp- 
tongued Mrs. Verdley, called it the Rector's waking 
of the dead. He had a closer sense of its effect, per- 
haps also of its humour, than was generally supposed : 
that, no doubt, is why it was never heard in church, 
or in a cottage in which a parishioner lay ill, or where 


4 


The Sacred Cup 

a child was asleep. It so startled and impressed the 
palace servant that on the strength of it he admitted 
Mr. Jerred through the exclusive portal. 

He was shown into the study. It was empty; but 
in a few minutes, just as the quiet little clergyman 
from the outlandish parish was beginning to wonder 
at there being no picture or other symbol of religious 
significance in the room, the Bishop entered and re- 
ceived him with ofiicial courtesy. 

He was a man of immense size compared with his 
puny visitor, and belonged to the aristocratic rather 
than the priestly type. He had a great, spreading, 
patronising manner, a strong and commonplace mind, 
and a voice habitually authoritative. He was proud 
of his reputation for bluntness, and talked so much 
about “muscular Christianity ’’ (he had three sons in 
the army, two in the navy, and another was a famous 
cricketer) that one day an unreasonable old lady asked 
him where she could find the words in the Bible. 
“ They are in the book of common sense, “ he replied 
in a tone of finality. The statesman who recom- 
mended his elevation to the episcopate said he would 
make an ideal prelate. Mr. Jerred was afraid of him, 
and would not have dared to blow his nose honestly 
in the episcopal presence. 

“Sit down, Jerred. Take that chair.’* 

“ Thank you, my lord. I regret I am late. I went 
into the cathedral ” 


“ Yes. You look as if you had lost your way. That 


5 


The Sacred Cup 

does n’t matter. I have an important engagement 
presently, but we can get through our business before 
then. You don’t seem to be getting fat at lyamberfield. 
Rather scarecrowy,” said the Bishop with the large 
smile of the small humourist. 

‘‘ I am afraid, my lord, there is not enough of me 
for — for much more extension.” Mr. Jerred blushed 
at this extraordinary liberty. trust,” he added 
hastily, ” your lordship is quite well.” 

” Oh, yes; I have to keep myself up to the mark in 
order to keep you clergy up to it. ’ ’ 

The Bishop was seated at his writing-table turning 
over a heap of documents. He selected a letter, writ- 
ten on common paper, and, having glanced at it, 
leaned back in his chair and looked across the table at 
Mr. Jerred. 

” This is about you, at or least has reference to you, 
but I won’t trouble you to read it. The writer, I 
gather, is a female, evidently uneducated, but she 
withholds her name. Of course, under ordinary cir- 
cumstances, I ignore such communications. In this 
case, however, I have further information. I hope, 
Jerred, you are not making enemies at Tamberfield ? ” 
Not — not that I am aware of, my lord.” 

” They ’d let you know. It is always best for a bene- 
ficed clergyman to be on friendly terms with his people. 
As the wise old saint says, more flies are caught with 
honey than with vinegar, and the honey costs nothing. 
Any silly woman bothering you ? ” 


6 


The Sacred Cup 

“ No, my lord — not to my knowledge/^ 

“ You must have had an exceptional experience for 
a bachelor. But you are no longer a distracting juve- 
nile. How old are you ? ’’ 

‘‘ Forty-five/’ Mr. Jerred replied with an unconscious 
little sigh. 

“ I have no doubt/’ said the Bishop, ‘‘you are do- 
ing your duty, and I shall assume that this unknown 
writer has some ridiculous grudge against you My 
other informant is more impartial. I am given to 
understand that you are maintaining at the Rectory 
— that you have actually adopted — the child of an un- 
fortunate young woman named Charlotte Ollett. ’ ’ The 
Bishop paused. “ Is this the case, Jerred ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord. It is not true— not quite accurate to 
say that I have adopted the child; I could not do that 
without the father’s consent, and we do not know who 
the father is. We are endeavouring to discover 
him.” 

“ What good would that do now ?” 

Mr. Jerred raised his eyes to the Bishop’s face in 
simple wonderment. 

“ It is not right that he should be allowed to escape 
responsibility.” 

“ But if, as I am informed, the mother died without 
naming the father of her child, or giving any clue to 
his identity, surely neither the law, nor you, nor any- 
body else could compel him to admit his responsibility. 
You must have considered the matter in that light ? ” 


7 


The Sacred Cup 

I cannot say that I have, my lord. The legal aspect 
of the case does not— has not interested me hitherto.” 

** But how could you punish such a man — supposing 
it were possible to do anything — without having re- 
course to the law ? ” 

Mr. Jerred confessed he had not been contemplating 
the punishment of any one, and added, ' ‘ I have been 
thinking, if we should hear from him, of other in- 
fluences.” 

” You are a nice kind of ecclesiastical chief constable 
of Tamberfield ! ’ ’ cried the Bishop. He glanced again 
at the anonymous letter. Very well, then. Now let 
us get at the facts, so that we may know exactly where 
we are. The child’s mother was unmarried — please 
correct me if I go wrong. She was for some years in 
your service as housemaid. I conclude that her general 
conduct must have been satisfactory for you to keep 
her so long. What was her age ? ” 

‘‘ Nineteen, my lord. She passed away in giving 
birth to the child. I have baptised him David.” 

' ‘ Is that the name of some young fellow who was 
courting her ? ’ ’ 

At the moment, it seemed to Mr. Jerred that the in- 
dignation he felt at this question was quite natural, but 
afterwards he feared he had been angry with his dio- 
cesan without cause. 

‘‘ No,” he said, turning aside his head. 

But he softened almost at once; for the future of 
lyOttie’s child was in jeopardy, and this was a call to 


8 


The Sacred Cup 

him to crush his own feelings, or at least to express 
them with a wider charity. 

‘‘She was very young, my lord, and innocent. I 
beg you to be patient with me for using that word; my 
friends tell me it should not be used — that it requires 
explanation — and I cannot explain it! Yet I believe 
in her innocence; I don’t think I shall ever cease to 
believe in it! I have not always understood, but I 
seem to understand now, that there may be moral 
lapses — if I might not be allowed to say moral acci- 
dents — which soil the face with bitter tears, and bring 
repentance as it were like a thunderbolt out of a calm 
and clear sky, and yet leave the soul unpolluted.” 

“ That is a dangerous doctrine, Jerred. I hope you 
don’t preach it to your people.” 

No, my lord, I don’t. Nevertheless, I think it is 
not unscriptural. As I have said, I cannot understand 
it, and I trust I am not appearing sophistical to your 
lordship — but I knew this poor girl in life, and I looked 
upon her beautiful, martyred face in death, and I am 
not uneasy in my conscience for my thoughts about 
her. Indeed, she was like a child herself, always so 
simple and happy and gentle, and so ignorant of the 
dark ways of the world and its temptations. Her fall 
is the deepest mystery in my experience of human 
frailty. It wounded my own faith for a time and 
dragged me down to the dust, till I could scarcely lift 
up my eyes. I am grieved, my lord, to say this to you.” 

The Bishop was more perplexed than he would have 


9 


The Sacred Cup 

been over an abstruse point in theology. He could flick 
theology to the winds with the book of common sense, 
but here was a moral problem, with uncertain person- 
alities behind it, which could not be dealt with so 
easily. He suspected Mr. Jerred to be capable of that 
most obstinate form of fanaticism which in pure unself- 
ishness determines that justice shall be done though 
all the world is scandalised; and scandal, especially 
clerical scandal, was peculiarly abhorrent to him. Yet 
he was confronted in the conduct of one of his clerg}'' 
with a grave issue, and the matter had gone so far that 
his dignity and authority would be compromised, were 
he to recede without doing something. 

‘ ‘ When was the child born ? ” 

Four months ago.” 

* ‘ At the Rectory ? ’ ' 

” Yes, my lord.” 

And it is still at the Rectory? Very well then,” 
said the Bishop, standing up suddenly at his writing- 
table. ” Now we must be practical about all this. It 
does credit to your heart, Jerred, if not to your head, 
to imagine that the father is likely to come forward 
voluntarily. He won't do anything of the sort! He 
must be a heartless rascal, and he will never disclose 
himself. The extraordinary circumstance to my mind 
is that you should have no idea as to his identity. 
Your parish is small, at least with regard to population, 
and you must be personally acquainted with every one 
there. Had the unhappy girl no sweetheart ? ” 


lO 


The Sacred Cup 

“ No, my lord. Douglas Shulmere, a young man of 
the village, is known to have professed an attachment 
for her — I don’t wish to question his sincerity in this 
respect, but he has not, I regret to say, a very good 
character, and it is common knowledge that Dottie 
would have nothing to do with him. She was, indeed, 
afraid of him, and would go considerable distances out 
of her way in order to avoid meeting him.” 

The Bishop sat down again. 

” But do you seriously tell me, that in a mere ham- 
let, where everybody knows everybody else, no one is 
even suspected ? ” 

Mr. Jerred hesitated a moment. 

‘‘ There are people, I am sorry to say, who do point 
to another young man, but I cannot at all share their 
suspicion, and I greatly deplore the wrong that is being 
done him. I felt no compunction in accepting him as 
one of the child’s godfathers.” 

Who is he?” 

“ Roland Margesson. He is in the choir, and wishes 
to leave it, owing to the talk which is so distressing and 
injuring him, but I have prevailed upon him to remain 
a little longer, to see how things turn — to give people 
an opportunity of ” 

‘‘ Agreeing with your estimate of Mr. Margesson ? ” 
the Bishop interrupted somewhat sharply. ”So I 
gather that your parish is at loggerheads over this 
most unfortunate affair at the Rectory.” 

” I would not like your lordship to think it is quite so 


1 1 


The Sacred Cup 

bad as that. We were all sorely troubled towards the 
end of last year, but I perceived a welcome improve- 
ment in charitable feeling at Christmas, and we are 
becoming more tranquil now.^* 

‘‘ Nearly all your people are poor, I suppose ? 

A great many of them are, my lord. There are a 
few exceptions. Sir Ardenne Tyson ” 

‘'An old friend of mine. I remember him quite well; 
he once did me an important service in Tondon. Does 
he live in your parish ? ’’ 

“Yes; at Chantry House with his daughter. He is 
possessed of means; and Miss Tyson, I understand, is 
rich in her own right, from a large fortune left to her 
by an uncle, Mr. Henry Tyson. Two or three other 
persons seem to be tolerably well-to-do. But gener- 
ally speaking it is a poor parish. 

The Bishop, his manner growing more stern, asked 
what Sir Ardenne Tyson and his family had to say 
about this scandal, and Mr. Jerred answered that he 
had not heard him express any opinion, but that Miss 
Tyson made no concealment of her belief in Roland 
Margesson’s innocence of the charge which had been 
brought against him. 

“ What are his people ? 

“ Only his mother is living now in the village. She 
is a very nice and respectable old lady. His father was 
for a long period the Tamberfield grocer, and I buried 
him. Roland left home for a time, taking a situation 
in Tondon, and Miss Tyson thinks it is this fact, more 


12 


The Sacred Cup 

than anything else, which tells against him now. He 
returned two years ago, when his father died, and he 
has since carried on the business for his mother. She 
is dependent upon it, and serious harm, I regret to say, 
is being done to them by this groundless suspicion. 
She is getting very frail, and Roland says if there 
was any one else to look after her, he would not 
stay to be made the target of — I forget his exact 
expression.*' 

“You are convinced there is nothing in the allega- 
tions against him ? * * 

“ Oh, yes, quite convinced, my lord." 

The Bishop took up the anonymous letter. 

“ The moral tone of some of these apparently idyllic 
rural parishes is not too high. It is obvious that this 
child should not have been born at the Rectory. 
There is a postscript here I may read to you." 

As the letter was unfolded in the prelate’s flourishing 
way, Mr. Jerred accidentally caught a glimpse of the 
writing; it seemed familiar to him, yet he did not recog- 
nise it. 

“ lyisten. ‘ This was not written by Mr, Camoys,^ 
Who is Mr, Camoys ? " 

“ He lives at Alard Place, some two miles from the 
village, but still in the parish." 

“Married?" 

“ No, my lord." 

“Young?" 

“ He was twenty-seven — or it may have been twenty- 


13 


The Sacred Cup 

eight — I have such a bad memory for dates and fig- 
ures — in January last/’ 

‘‘What is he?” 

‘‘ A gentleman.” 

“ Technically ? ” 

“ Oh, in every respect, my lord.” 

“You make out,” observed the Bishop, “that you 
have a community of perfect beings. But they don’t 
appear to be able to crush the head of the serpent in 
their midst. I hope Mr. Camoys subscribes to your 
parochial funds.” 

‘ ‘ He is too poor to give much, but he does help when 
he can. He belongs to an extremely old family, who 
have been at Alard Place for a great number of years, 
and it is so strange and interesting that he should be 
the last of his race in the male line. The De Camoys of 
Alard once held titles, as various memorials of them in 
the church testify, and the inscriptions indicate that 
they were scholars and patrons of the arts as well as 
persons of influence in the county. The estate has 
been sadly reduced, though I don’t think Mr. Camoys 
is reconciled to the thought that his family’s greatness 
has departed. It is commendable in him that he should 
wish to build up his fortunes again by his own efforts.” 

“And a rich wife, I suppose,” added the Bishop. 
“Very well, then. Now let us get to a settlement of 
this business, so far as you are concerned in it. As I 
have said, I am persuaded of the excellence of your 
motives. But in these days of critical and unscrupulous 


H The Sacred Cup 

watchers on very side, ready to attack and slander the 
Church on the smallest pretext, the clergy cannot be 
too careful. I am obliged to ponder everything I say 
in public, and there is no clergyman, however humble 
his position may be, who can aiBford to do anything 
which gives rise to the breath of scandal. I have ex- 
pressed my opinion of the unfortunte occurrence in your 
house, and I am bound to say you scarcely seem fully 
to realise its seriousness as affecting your parish. 
What you have now to do is perfectly plain. You will 
of course take steps to have this child removed as soon 
as possible from the Rectory.'’ 

My lord 

‘‘ I will tell m}^ secretary to send you particulars 
about two or three charitable institutions, and you will 
doubtless be able to select one and make the necessary 
arragements.” 

‘‘ My lord— ” 

‘‘You may use my name, and I shall do what I can 
to get you out of this difficulty. It might have been 
worse; I am glad I sent for you. There is an admirable 
charity in this city, in which my wife takes a deep in- 
terest, but perhaps it would be desirable, in order to 
prevent further misunderstanding, that you should 
find an institution at a distance.” 

The Rector of Tamberfield was leaning forward 
eagerly in his chair. 

“ My lord — I beg your pardon — but I hope you will 
not request me to give the child up until I — until some- 


15 


The Sacred Cup 

thing has been — until we have discovered its father. 
This is a terrible thought to me — and how is it to go 
through life ? Its future, humanly speaking, depends, 
I do think, my lord, upon its father acknowledging it. 
And that is not all. An innocent man is involved, 
and his character should be vindicated. Moreover, it 
surely must have a disastrous effect on the father, 
spiritually and morally, if he is allowed to stand on one 
side — in ambush, so to say — without anything being 
done to bring his duty home to him.'^ 

The Bishop, intending to end the interview, had 
moved from his writing-table towards the door. But 
he returned, and again sat down; this time on a chair 
nearer to Mr. Jerred. 

But you have given me to understand that there is 
no prospect of your unearthing the man. You have n^t 
the faintest idea as to who he may be.’’ 

‘‘Did I say that, my lord? I sometimes think — ” 
Mr. Jerred paused in pathetic bewilderment. “I 
pray ever}^ day,” he went on in broken accents, “ that 
he may come to me and admit his fault, and make such 
atonement as may now be possible to him — and I be- 
lieve — oh, something tells me he will do it, my lord 
— and then we shall know what to do.” 

The Bishop gave one of his great impatient sighs. 

“ I am afraid you are a very unpractical little man, 
Jerred. Why, the fellow may be at the other end of 
the world by now! He may never have lived in your 
parish. You are utterly in the dark about him, and 


i6 


The Sacred Cup 

yet you dream that he is going to prostrate himself at 
your feet if only you give his conscience time enough 
to torment him into repentance! You must come and 
preach in the cathedral; your simplicity would be re- 
freshing after the higher criticism of the Dean and 
Chapter. Besides, my dear man, the scamp may be of 
such a character that in the child’s interests it would 
be as well for him to skulk in the background and his 
identity remain for ever a secret.” 

But Mr. Jerred shook his head. 

“ She was a girl of refined tastes and gentle manners, 
my lord,” he said, and this leads me to conclude that 
the father of her child cannot be a man of coarse, brutal 
nature. I cannot say how or when it may come to 
pass, but I feel in my heart that soon or late he will 
declare himself. The impression grows upon me that 
he is living in or near the village, that he is very un- 
happy, and is anxiously observing me, wondering 
what I am going to do with the child. This is why I 
wish to keep it.” 

“I see, I see ; you are in the air about the whole 
thing,” said the Bishop. “ You idealise the father be- 
cause of your regard and pity for the mother. If you 
had a wider knowledge of human nature, you would n’t 
make such a mistake. And supposing you were ac- 
cidentally to light upon him, and he were to deny it, 
what then ? Nay, what could you do, even if he were 
to admit it? You simply could n’t do anything.” 

Mr. Jerred, after a silence so prolonged that he began 


17 


The Sacred Cup 

to fear it was disrespectful, said : ‘ ‘ I trust your lordship 
will grant me time to consider ’ ' 

‘‘ Oh, yes. But you are clearly an impossible vision- 
ary in this matter! If you were a layman, I should 
have nothing to say, but you are the centre of a parish, 
and the people look to the Rectory for an example. I 
don^t for a moment suggest that you don^t set them a 
good example in ordinary circumstances. But here is 
something out of the ordinary, and you deal with it in 
an extraordinary manner. Your parishioners see this 
child at the Rectory — know it was born there — and 
what do they think ? 

‘‘They do not appear, my lord,’* Mr. Jerred re- 
marked, “to have changed in their kindly feelings 
towards me.” 

“ That may be ; I am delighted to hear it. But you 
have taken up a peculiar position, and how can you 
expect ignorant country people to understand your 
motives ? ” 

A servant entered and announced that another visitor 
was in the library. The Bishop, going with Mr. Jerred 
to the door, shook hands with him warmly. 

“ Now you must reflect on what I have said. Mean- 
while, my secretary will forward you those papers. 
But let there be no mistake — it is eminently undesirable 
that you should adopt this child. It might lead to 
painful and unpleasant consequences by which you 
would be gravely compromised. If the man were forced 
out of his lair, he might prove a dangerous customer 


i8 


The Sacred Cup 

for you to come in conflict with. You seem to have 
no lack of moral courage, Jerred, but you are dreaming 
about a miracle, and a clergyman should respect the 
conventionalities ; they are tremendous realities, and 
nothing is gained by ignoring them. Had you been a 
married man, this would not have occurred! Your wife 
would have settled it in a very different fashion. I find 
the celibate clergy good workers as a rule, but apt to be 
eccentric and self-willed, and they too often forget that 
we are no longer in the first century. The interests of 
the Church have a paramount claim upon us all. Come 
and see me again in a week or so, and tell me what 
you have done.’’ 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“Very well, then. Good day. 

Mr. Jerred was dismissed without the episcopal 
blessing. 


CHAPTER II 


His visit had taken a form so confusingly unexpected 
that as he wandered through the cloisters they seemed 
now almost unfamiliar to him. He had offended his 
Bishop, and he feared that when he went again to the 
palace, he would be in real disgrace. For, whatever 
the consequences might be, he could not give up Eottie 
Ollett’s child to strangers in a public institution. 

He was glad to get into a quiet corner in the cathe- 
dral precincts, where no one, perhaps, would disturb 
him for a while ; it was damp and sunless, but restfully 
green and grey and moss-grown, and the Bishops s 
personality became gradually less menacing here. The 
cathedral spire soared into golden light, and Mr. 
Jerred felt comforted as he stood gazing up at it from 
the cool shadows of the walled enclosure. Something 
of the benign atmosphere of the mystic ages returned to 
him, relieving the dull oppression of thought and feel- 
ing into which he had fallen in the episcopal presence. 
His visions went upward with the spire. He could 
see it on clear days from the hills bordering his parish 
on the south-east, and as he gazed, he was carried home 
19 


20 


The Sacred Cup 

in spirit, on the swift wings of the emotions of sym- 
pathy and unselfishness which had so endeared him 
to his people. 

He sat on a bench, and fell into deeper and sadder 
reverie. The glittering cross up there, even the huge 
pile of the cathedral itself, seemed to pass from his con- 
sciousness of immediate things. That strain of music 
— some one would be playing the great organ in the 
choir. It sounded very far away too, and yet very 
near, like his own fading thoughts. 

It was a dark, cold night early in November, and he 
was returning home from visiting a sick peasant on the 
farther side of Vallum wood. He had just come out of 
the wood, and was going along by a low wall, when he 
fancied he heard a noise like a stifled sob. He went on 
a few steps, listening, and then on the other side of the 
wall, he saw some one, or something, lying on a heap 
of straw under a tree. He stopped, peering over the 
wall, and thought it must be a human figure, but could 
not be sure. He did feel sure he had heard the note 
of suffering ; he was never mistaken as to that. He 
could not go on without speaking, but a vague terror 
in the very centre of his being kept him silent. It was 
not a dread of anything that might be done to him per- 
sonally. He could not have defined his fear; and yet 
it was one of those profound realities which take up 
their abode with us, never to leave, hardly even to fade 
with the passing of the years. 


The Sacred Cup 21 

Are you,” at length he said, “having a rest there 
on the straw ? ^ ' 

But the figure gave no sign; it remained so still, like 
sorrow beyond articulation. 

“It is a chilly night, you know, and getting late,” 
Mr. Jerred added. 

He perceived then a faint movement, more like a 
shiver than anything else, but no answer was given. 
He went along to a gate in the wall, and made his way 
to the figure on the straw. It was Lottie Ollett; and 
when he said with pained surprise, “ Lottie — oh, what 
are you doing here ? ' ’ she turned her face from him 
and began to cry. He knelt beside her, putting his 
hand on her shoulder, and then she partly got up, as 
if to go away from him, but sank down again, and 
her sobs seemed to tell all that could be told of the 
travail of womanhood. Still Mr. Jerred only under- 
stood as in a glass, darkly. The significance of her 
grief was veiled from him by his absolute faith in her 
innocence. 

“ Lottie, my dear child, what has happened to make 
you like this, and bring you to such a place late at 
night ? Oh, you must tell me. No one at the Rectory, 
I hope, has been harsh to you? ” 

“No, no,” she said. 

“ You must come with me then, and if there has been 
a little trouble we will soon put it right. Has Douglas 
Shulmere been rude to you ? ” 

“ No — no, sir; he never has been rude to me.” 


22 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Well, then, I 'm sure it can be nothing very seri- 
ous, and so 

He was wearing an old-fashioned cloak which he 
had bought at a second-hand clothes shop in Muntham, 
and he took it off and wrapped it round the girl’s shoul- 
ders. She broke down utterly under his gentle kind- 
ness, and falling on the straw, appeared as though she 
wished to hide herself from him. 

“You can’t do anything for me, sir ! ” 

“ Lottie, Lottie ! Oh, how could I let you stay out 
here? Now give me your hand, and I will help you 

to Thank you. But you are cold, and your 

clothes are wet, child.” 

His cloak fell from her shoulders as she stood up. 
He lifted it, and would have put it about her again, 
but he remembered that they were going through the 
village, and some of the cottagers might be at their 
doors, and a pretty girl would not like to be seen in a 
man’s garment. So he carried it on his arm; and they 
went on together to the Rectory, Lottie suppressing her 
grief. 

Then her flight, a fortnight later, and the terrible 
truth which Mrs. Verdley was at last compelled to 
break to him. He was stricken dumb under the blow. 
She had been as his own daughter. He felt he could 
never raise his eyes again in Lamberfield. But his 
thought for the sufferer was far greater than his 
thought for himself. 


23 


The Sacred Cup 

I must find her,” he said, ” and bring her home ! ” 

‘‘ But what,” his housekeeper tearfully asked, will 
the people say ? ’ ^ 

It was as nothing to him what they might say. He 
was in no mood to defy them; he simply did not con- 
sider the point. It would have been the voice of 
despair, and that was a voice to which Mr. Jerred never 
listened. To him, the unpardonable sin was to believe 
that any sinner could be beyond the guiding hand that 
leads to repentance and forgiveness. He went up to his 
room, and all that afternoon no one saw him. In the 
dusk, he came silently down-stairs, as though he were 
afraid of being heard moving in his own house, and 
when Mrs. Verdley spoke to him in his study, he said 
again, ‘‘ I must find poor Lottie, and bring her home ! ” 
She left him; and when he was once more alone, he 
uttered the cry of his beloved George Herbert: 

Throw away Thy rod, 

Throw away Thy wrath ; 

O my God, 

Take the gentle path ! 

From that moment, Lottie Ollett became a sacred 
trust to him. She had no one else to protect her; all 
her people were dead or scattered over the world. 

He found her in wretched lodgings in Muntham, 
almost under the shadow of the cathedral, and as he 
bent over her in a great pity and love, ” I have come to 
take you home, Lottie,” he said. She sobbed out that 


24 


The Sacred Cup 

she had no home now, and was going away, and, 
“ God knows,’' she cried, “ what will become of me ! ” 
“Yes, He knows,” Mr. Jerred answered, “and He 
is telling me that I must not forsake you. He is saying 
to me, ‘ She is your sister — take her home.’ ” 

That was his religion. It was the faith as a grain 
of mustard seed. It was the beginning of the wonder 
in Lamberfield. 

The birth of the child; the death of the child-mother; 
a sigh between the coming and the going. No word 
had she spoken of her betrayer. It was a silence mar- 
vellous to Mr. Jerred. It had passed into his own 
heart, there becoming as it were a living thing, striv- 
ing for utterance. 

And then the baptism. It was Christmas eve, to- 
wards twilight, and the oil lamps in the little old 
church had not been lighted. Women and girls of the 
village had come in under the organ loft, where the 
font was; Mrs. Verdley, carrying the child, whispered, 
“ I ’m to be godmother, sir, but James Teall and An- 
drew Greysmith have n’t come yet.” After he had 
read the Gospel, “They brought young children to 
Him, that He should touch them,” a female voice 

was heard, “ Cowards Jim and Andrew! ” “ Hush; 

don’t let us forget where we are,” the Rector said 
softly. Then Arnold Karnes and Roland Margesson 
stepped forward, and offered themselves as godfathers. 
“We receive this child,” said Mr. Jerred, holding it 


25 


The Sacred Cup 

tenderly to his breast, “into the congregation of 
Christ’s flock, and do sign him with the sign of the 
cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed 
to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to 
fight under His banner.” 

The great organ in the cathedral was still sending 
forth its remote music, but the light was not so bright 
on the spire, and the shadows were darker on the 
walled enclosure. Mr. Jerred, wondering whether he 
had fallen asleep, got up and went his way. 

He had gone more than a mile on his homeward walk 
when he remembered that Mrs. Hoddinott, the wife of 
the village shoemaker, had asked him to bring her a 
bottle of her favourite patent medicine. He was feeling 
tired; the reaction from the strain of his interview with 
the Bishop had set in; but he did not like to disappoint 
the old lady. So he went back. And as he was again 
leaving the city, a farmer picked him up in his trap. 

“We never,” Mr. Jerred said to himself, “do the 
smallest kindness without being rewarded for it.” 

The rewards of his own good deeds had enriched his 
heart, and he gave them all away again, and yet he 
grew richer and richer in the immeasurable influence 
of his saintly life. 


CHAPTER III 


Thk farmer, although he lived in another parish, had 
heard of the child at Eamberfield Rectory, and asked 
how it was getting on. The blunt heartiness of the 
question from an honest old countryman whose soul 
was impervious to moral niceties somehow hurt Mr. 
Jerred, and having answered briefly, he turned the 
conversation. The Bishop’s talk about a charitable 
institution had made a difference in his outlook. His 
anxiety regarding little David’s future was making 
him almost suspicious even of his friend. 

The farmer had to take a by-road just before reach- 
ing Lamberfield, and Mr. Jerred, thanking him for his 
timely drive, alighted and walked into the village. 

The bright March day was ending in sharp, clear, 
curiously brilliant twilight. Tints of lilac and purple 
were in the sky; the trees stood out like disrobed em- 
blems of hope on the low-lying hills; from cottages came 
the glow of wood fires made up for the evening’s rest; 
high in the elms which protected the Rectory from the 
north-east winds, rooks were settling themselves dov/n 
by their nests for the night. The old church seemed 
to have grown young again in this eager light of 
26 


The Sacred Cup 


27 


declining day. Many birds, too happy to be silent 
or still, were dashing hither and thither uttering the 
strong love notes of spring. The swallows would soon 
be coming now. 

Mr. Jerred stopped at Mrs. Hoddinott's cottage with 
her bottle of medicine. 

“I'm that glad, sir, you did n't forget it," she said. 

“Supposing I had — I might have done you a good 
turn," he suggested, smiling. Is it really of any use 
to you, or do you only " 

“Bless the man," said the old lady, “you 'd soon 
have to read the dust to dust an' ashes to ashes over 
me if I was to do without it." 

“Well, as you take so much of it, it might come 
cheaper if you were to purchase it in large quantities." 

Mr. Jerred laughed inwardly at his little joke as he 
went on. 

Tamberfield had grown up through the centuries (the 
parish register began in the year 1 556) in an irregu- 
lar semicircle, with the Rectory at one end, the church 
about the middle, and Chantry House at the other ex- 
tremity. The Black Swan stood between the church 
and the Chantry House, and Mr. Jerred did not shun 
the tavern as though it were a pestilence; he went there 
for the club suppers, and on other festive occasions, not 
only because he liked to be with his people in their 
rejoicings, but also in the hope that his example in 
moderation might have a good effect. It was a se- 
cluded village, lying among hills about a quarter of a 


28 


The Sacred Cup 

mile from the highroad, from which it was shut in by 
the great ragged tail of Vallum wood. 

Mr. Jerred was going on to the church : it was always 
left open from early morning till sunset, and, as the 
sexton was disabled by rheumatism, he had promised 
to see that the door was locked before nightfall. 

He was passing Floretta Shulmere’s cottage, which 
stood by itself in a tiny, neglected garden, when he 
fancied he heard a tap on the window-pane. He 
looked, and saw Floretta's pale face, but she gave no 
sign that she wished to speak to him, and he concluded 
that he had been mistaken as to the tapping. He 
knew, however, how peculiar she sometimes was, and 
thinking, from the appealing expression of her large, 
dark-brown, sad eyes, that she might after all have 
something to say to him, he nodded to her, and went 
up the garden path. When he got to the door, she 
opened it, standing with her back to the wall in mute 
invitation to him to enter. Two or three steps took 
him into the living-room, and he noticed that she had 
been engaged on the fancy needlework which she sold 
at shops in Muntham. She sat on a chair by the open 
door. 

‘‘Won't you feel a draught there?" Mr. Jerred 
suggested. 

“ I have always had a cold," she answered, with her 
melancholy smile. “ My mother used to say I was 
born with one. She died of consumption, you know." 

“ I don't think it is wise," said the Rector, “ to take 


29 


The Sacred Cup 

it for granted, as some families seem to do, that certain 
complaints are hereditary. Mr. Karnes, the curate of 
Wivelscote, whose excellent sermons you have heard 
at our church, has lost three brothers from consump- 
tion, but he has never despaired, and is quite strong 
and well. We all have some weak point, perhaps in- 
herited, but being aware of this we should take precau- 
tions. My dear father was blind for several years 
before he died, and I remember, when I was studying 
hard before my ordination, how my eyes troubled me, 
and I almost feared I should lose my sight, — and I dare 
say I became quite moody over it, — and then I said, ‘If 
it be the will of God, so it must be, but it is my duty 
to do the best I can for myself.’ Would it not,” 
Mr. Jerred continued, suddenly taking up a beautiful 
piece of needlework, “ be better — I mean, more remu- 
nerative- if you were to make dresses and other clothes 
for ladies? ” 

“ I suppose it would. But I ’ve never been trained to 
it, and one must do what one can.” 

” Yes, of course; and no doubt if we could always be 
happy in our own wa}^ it would not be the safest way, 
and some of us would end by being very miserable.” 
He had not intended exactly so to express himself, and 
smiled as he added: “ I have been for a long walk, and 
feel rather done up.” 

As he put down the needlework, he noticed on the 
table an envelope addressed in Floret ta’s handwriting. 
His glance was accidental, giving him no knowledge 


30 


The Sacred Cup 

of the person to whom the letter was going, and at the 
moment, he thought no more of it. 

‘‘ Has your brother found anything to do yet ? ’* he 
asked kindly. 

‘‘ I don’t know. He left home after breakfast, and 
I ’ve not seen him since. The work he is suited for is 
so scarce hereabouts. ” 

Floretta Shulmere did not encourage people to speak 
of her brother. She had especially discouraged them 
since the death of Tottie Ollett. She never herself 
spoke to him about the dead girl or her child; but on 
the day after Tottie’s burial, meeting Mr. Jerred in 
the village, she had said to him earnestly, “ Douglas 
would n’t have hurt a hair of her head; he loved her as 
he has never loved me, and never will ”; and the Rec- 
tor, not knowing what to say, had pressed the devoted 
sister’s hand in silent sympathy. 

She was a woman of forty- three, thirteen years older 
than her brother, and the ravages of lung disease, to- 
gether with the ceaseless toil and anxiety of keeping a 
roof over their heads, had made her look all her age. 
Her parents had died within a few weeks of each other 
when Floretta was twenty-six, and the villagers had 
said that Douglas Shulmere would by now have been 
a tramp, or in jail, or hanged but for his sister. They 
accounted this to her at once for righteousnss and weak- 
ness. In rural life, it is not always easy to tell where 
righteousness ends and weakness begins. 

Their father had been an indoor servant to a family 


31 


The Sacred Cup 

in the neighbourhood, but had lived in Lamberfield, 
where Douglas was born; and their mother, to whom 
they owed their comparative refinement of speech, had 
come from a distant county, regarded herself as one in 
exile, and talked vaguely of her high-bred relatives, 
particularly on her father’s side. She even hinted that 
he was a gentleman of title; and the women of the vil- 
lage elevated their eyebrows and said that was nothing 
to boast of. They pitied Floretta, and were willing to 
befriend her, but she was a strange, reserved woman, 
proud by suggestion rather than in anything that could 
actually be named against her. They had predicted 
every fall of the year that it would be her last; and now 
the more superstitious almost believed that she was 
miraculously kept alive for her brother’s salvation. 
Yet she rarely defended him, except to say, ‘'He is 
not so bad as you want to make out.” Mr. Jerred 
read a touching sisterly loyalty in this saying, and 
often recalled it. 

To the verdict of the physically and morally robust, 
that Douglas had been given enough chances, and 
should be cast forth to sink or swim, Floretta, so far as 
any one knew, paid no heed. The unhappy woman 
found strength and hope in her love and care for one 
weaker in character than she was herself, and she never 
dreamed of telling him that he was a burden to her. 
She loved him none the less because there was no 
recompense for the long and toilsome sacrifices she had 
made for his sake. “ If I have n’t done him much 


32 


The Sacred Cup 

good/^ she once in a moment of confidence said to 
Margaret I^yson, ‘‘at least I am teaching myself how to 
die; and it seemed to Margaret that this was the last 
word of the utter weariness in self-denial which had 
wept (it may be with unshed tears) the vision of the 
kingdom of heaven on earth out of its tired eyes. 

“ I was wondering/^ said Floretta, “ if I should see 
you go past, Mr. Jerred.'' Her shadowy hands were 
restless on her lap, and he noticed that she did not look 
directly at him; he had been struck by this peculiarity 
in her during the past three or four weeks ; formerly 
her eyes had frankly met his. “I saw Mrs. Verdley at 
the shop, and she told me the Bishop had invited you 
to spend the afternoon at the palace.’' Floretta stood 
up, and went to the window, as though something had 
been said that agitated her. “As you know, sir, I 
have not stopped my custom at Mrs. Margesson’s, such 
as it is.” 

“I am glad of that. Miss Shulmere. We should 
stand by those to whom wrong is being done.” 

She remained by the window, with her back to him. 
All at once she turned to the table and took up the ad- 
dressed envelope, which she held in her hand for a min- 
ute or so, saying nothing, and then she put it behind 
an ornament on the mantelshelf. 

Mr. Jerred did not think her movements were surrep- 
titious; yet her manner surprised him. It was now 
that he found himself taking a curious, unaccountable 
interest in her handwriting, and he had an impression 


33 


The Sacred Cup 

that he had seen it elsewhere under painful circumstan- 
ces. She went into the passage; and fearing she was 
really troubled, or ill, he followed her. 

** What is the matter. Miss Shulmere ? I hope you 
don’t forget that I am your friend.” 

“ No, no; I ’ll never forget that, sir. I would ask 
you to come to me — if it were necessary — when I 
could n’t bear to speak to anybody else.” 

‘ ‘ I am so pleased. Then — perhaps Douglas has been 
distressing you again ? ’ ’ 

” No; it is n’t my brother — not altogether. I would 
tell you if I could. I can’t, I can’t; I dare n’t tell any 
one 1 Oh,” she cried pathetically, ” I don’t know what 
to do, but I can’t keep it up much longer! ” 

” Miss Shulmere, you must ” 

But she said: ” I beg your pardon, sir; I ’m not 
feeling very well to-day,” and glided into the kitchen. 

Far from being offended, Mr. Jerred was deeply 
touched by her behaviour. 

d 


CHAPTER IV 


Hk left the cottage and went on to the church. It 
was to him the centre of everything, the trysting-place 
of divine love, more beautiful in its decay than the 
most magnificent modern temple. He liked to see the 
gate of the churchyard kept shut. It stood open, and 
he looked about, but saw no one. 

It was the hour when the toilers were indoors, 
and the children were being put to bed, the hour 
in which Mr. Jerred felt that if he had faith enough 
he could see guardian angels watching over every 
cottage. He took the key of the church from a nail 
hidden in the ivy of the tower, and put it in the lock, 
leaving it there until he had gone in to make sure that 
all was well. 

It was so dark in the interior, the windows being 
small, and some of them filled with stained glass, that 
he could scarcely discern the old stone font under the 
organ loft. He set his hat and walking-stick in a 
pew, and moved down to the altar, standing before it 
awhile in silence, and then kneeling on the bare floor. 
As he came away, he paused at the lectern, his hand 
34 


35 


The Sacred Cup 

resting upon it, and again, as many times before, good 
George Herbert’s verse rose in his mind: 

Not a word or look 
I affect to own, 

But by book. 

And Thy book alone. 

He went into the vestry to see if the door was fast- 
ened there; for one winter night a tramp had got in, 
and was found asleep, rolled up in the cassocks and 
surplices. Mr. Jerred did not think it was so very 
wrong that a church should give shelter to a homeless 
wanderer, but the men and boys of the choir were 
indignant. 

He was passing before the vestry window when he 
noticed that some one was in the churchyard. He 
looked out, and saw a man standing by a grave. His 
back was towards the window, and Mr. Jerred did not 
at once recognise him. He thought at first it must be 
a stranger; it was unusual for the villagers to go into 
the churchyard after sunset, except on Sundays. 

It was Lottie Ollett’s grave by which he stood: that 
was the cross of daffodils which Mrs. Verdley had 
gathered from the Rectory garden to put upon it. The 
man did not move, but Mr. Jerred perceived, by his 
habit of inclining his head over his left shoulder, that 
it was Douglas Shulmere. Expecting that he would 
soon go away, and wishing to avoid intruding on him 
in such a solemn moment, he determined to remain 
in the church awhile. He had never doubted the 


36 


The Sacred Cup 

sincerity of Shulmere’s affection for Lottie, and he for- 
gave him much for coming to look on her grave at this 
late hour, when no one would be likely to be about. 

He stood so motionless by it that in the increasing 
darkness he became almost like a shadow; and then 
he sank down on his knees, holding his hands on his 
eyes and his mouth, as though he were stifling an out- 
burst of grief. He got up abruptly, unsteadily, and 
retreated, as if to hide himself, into a corner where the 
vestry was built up to the chancel. 

Mr. Jerred could not now see him. But suddenly 
he heard a sob. It was over in a moment, — a dreadful 
smothered anguish, like a soul in despair. The Rector, 
in the silence which followed, crept on tiptoe out of the 
church, quietly locked the door, and went home. 

Mrs. Verdley, when he entered the hall, was stand- 
ing on a chair lighting the hanging lamp. He asked 
her to be careful not to fall, and said it might save 
trouble and be safer if the lamp were kept on the table. 

Where stupids could knock it over and set the 
house on fire,” she replied. 

She ignored, as a rule, his suggestions about domestic 
affairs, telling her friends he was the homeliest and the 
easiest satisfied of men, but so absent-minded he never 
knew where anything was when he wanted it, and he 
would ask for cold mutton for luncheon after he had 
had it three days running. She had to keep him in 
order, and stop him from wasting his money as well. 
“ Goodness knows,” said Mrs. Verdley, there is n't 


37 


The Sacred Cup 

much to waste, but he behaves sometimes as if he were 
a millionaire/' 

He looked, however, tired and depressed this even- 
ing, and for once she did not remind him that he had 
put his hat and stick in the wrong place. He apolo- 
gised for his untidiness as he watched her removing 
them to where she had ordained they should be kept. 
Then she told him that Miss Tyson and Roland Mar- 
gesson were waiting for him in the study. 

“ The one came fast on the heels of the other," she 
added with a saucy little laugh. It was sufficiently 
absurd to Mrs. Verdley, who, as the widow of a small 
farmer, had old-fashioned country ideas about ‘ ‘ the 
gentry," that a rich and handsome young lad57 should 
care for the village shopkeeper, who was under sus- 
picion of having betrayed Tottie Ollett, but she wanted 
to rouse the Rector out of the doldrums b}" giving him 
a mild shock. " They 've been in there all by them- 
selves for half an hour, I should say." 

" I am sorry to have kept them waiting so long," 
Mr. Jerred replied. 

" They may n’t have missed you. Miss Tyson came 
first, and when she heard Roland at the door, out she 
slipped and asked — dragged him in." 

" Oh, no ; she does n’t drag, does she, now?" the 
Rector said. "Of course, she knows how unfairly 
Roland is being treated, and would wish to comfort 
him." 

" Yes — I left her to do it in the dark." 


38 


The Sacred Cup 

Mrs. Verdley, seeing that her audacity was missing 
fire, repeated her amiably mischievous laugh. 

“ I forgot to light the lamp in the study; so they U1 
be having a nice little gloaming gossip all by their two 
selves.'’ 

I saw the firelight at the window as I came up,” 
said the Rector. 

” Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Verdley. 

It was not the first time that Mr. Jerred’s simplicity 
— which she suspected was occasionally assumed to 
prevent her from going too far — had defeated her 
attempts to cheer him up by scandalising him, and 
she generally capitulated with a sigh; but woe unto 
the person, male or female, who should dare to try to 
shock him in her presence! 

‘ ‘ What, ’ ’ she inquired, ‘ ‘ has the Bishop been worry- 
ing you about, sir ? ” 

” He wished to speak to me with reference to the 
child.” 

Mrs. Verdley’ s stout little figure was all alert on the 
instant. 

” Who asked him to interfere ? He ’s not paying for 
the child’s keep. And how does he know it ’s here? 
Mrs. lyewknor, I ’ll wager! ” 

Ssh ! ” the Rector whispered. The study ” 

‘‘ Door shut,” said Mrs. Verdley. What has the 
Bishop got to say, sir ? ” 

His lordship suggests that I had better go 

in and see Miss Tyson.” 


39 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Oh, but please tell me! Somebody has been spy- 
ing! Have they been saying I ’m his mother? ’’ 

O Mrs. Verdley! No, no, no! ’’ 

Well, then, what has the Bishop to do with it ? 

He has expressed the opinion that the child should 
be given up.’’ 

‘‘To its father, I suppose?” Mrs. Verdley was 
ready to flare up in battle against the whole episcopal 
bench. “ When he shows face it ’ll be time enough to 
think about that! I ’ve never had a child of my own 
— and I loved Lottie Ollett as if she ’d been my own 
sister — and you can tell the Bishop from me the child 
is n’t going to be given up! ” 

“I did think of this,” said Mr. Jerred, “but I 
thought it best not to mention the subject to him. Do 
be calm, Mrs. Verdley, please. I am disturbed, too; 
but there is no need for us to be fierce over it. Every- 
thing may be arranged satisfactorily. The Bishop is 
very powerful, and — Mrs. Verdley, I don’t want to 
give little David up either, and I am glad you agree 
with me in this.” 

“ The two of us will be a match for him,” she said, 
making an effort, out of her very genuine respect for 
the Rector, to control her temper. “ So you did n’t 
promise ? ” 

“ No. I was so surprised by the suggestion that I 
cannot quite clearly remember what I did say. But I 
am sure I could not have consented to David’s removal 
to a charitable institution.” 


40 


The Sacred Cup 

“ He said that ? ” 

“ Don^t raise your voice/' Mr. Jerred pleaded. 

But he says it 's a scandal for the child to be at the 
Rectory?" 

" I am afraid But he means well; and a bishop 

must have rules, you know, and we cannot always ex- 
pect him to perceive the force of exceptions which are 
understood by others. We must talk it over presently, 
when you are — when we are in a more placid frame of 
mind, — and in any case I could not have made his lord- 
ship such a promise without first consulting you, who 
have been so kind to the child, its second mother 
indeed." 

‘‘You told him that, sir? " 

“ I — I should think I must have done so." 

“ I only wish I had been there to rub it in! " 

“ The Bishop, I believe," said Mr. Jerred, musingly, 
“ does not altogether favour the intervention of ladies 
in matters of ecclesiastical discipline." 

“This is n’t anything of the sort!" Mrs. Verdley 
exclaimed; “ and you could have told him that wher- 
ever there ’s a child without mother or father, he ’ll 
find a woman poking her nose into the why and 
wherefore ! ’’ 

The study door opened, and Margaret Tyson came 
out. 


CHAPTER V 


Shk smiled as she said, Mr. Karnes would say I 
have been behaving unconventionally in a conventional 
way.” Her face expressed a tranquil sweetness; her 
clear-toned grey eyes had the reserved humour of an 
essentially happy nature. ‘‘ Mrs. Verdley told me you 
had gone to Muntham, and so I have been officiating 
as your locum tenens. ’ ’ 

It was a unique chance for a compliment, but Mr. 
Jerred merely replied, ” I hope Roland is not becoming 
more despondent ? ' * 

am afraid he is,” said Margaret Tyson. I 
called to speak to you about Douglas Shulmere, but I 
must not stay now. His conduct is getting more and 
more extraordinary. He was heard storming at his 
sister last night — quite late, when he came home after 
midnight — and if he goes on like this, he will kill her. 
The poor thing has n*t strength to bear his violence.” 

‘‘ He did not strike her, surely ? ” 

‘‘ No; I don^t think he went so far as that, but the 
neighbours say he behaved like a madman. Indeed 
they really believe now that he is not in his right 
mind. It seems he had got hold of the idea that his 
41 


42 


The Sacred Cup 

sister knew something about Lottie — something un- 
known to any one else — and was concealing it from 
him/’ 

“ But what,” said Mr. Jerred, could she possibly 
know that is not known to us ? ” 

” Oh, I don’t suppose there is anything. It is his 
craziness, and her ill-health and terror of him. I was 
with her for half an hour or so to-day, and she made 
me think of a woman haunted. I was questioning her 
about her brother’s conduct, when she became very ex- 
cited and said, ‘ If I were to tell Douglas, he would 
murder him! ’ It quite made me shiver, and I tried to 
get from her what she meant, — to whom she referred, — 
but she abruptly left the room, saying she was not well. 
I am convinced she is going about in mortal dread of 
some one, and of course it can only be her brother. 
Have you seen her recently ? ” 

” Yes; I saw her at her window as I was passing 
just now, and looked in. It seemed to me that she 
wished to speak to me, but she had nothing to 
say.” 

Mr. Jerred recalled what he had seen and heard at 
the church, but that, so he thought, belonged to the 
spiritual domain, and of such personal matters he never 
spoke. 

‘‘ My own impression. Miss Lyson, is that the un- 
happy woman is brooding over some secret which is 
giving her great trouble, but I have no reason to sup- 
pose that it has any reference to Lottie. We must try 


43 


The Sacred Cup 

to win her confidence, and not leave her too much 
alone. It may, after all, be nothing more than the 
morbid condition induced by her precarious health, 
and the prospect of her brother being left homeless. 
She is deeply attached to him, you know, in spite of 
his bad behaviour.’’ 

“ Yes — but I feel sure, Mr. Jerred, there must be a 
third person concerned. She so distinctly said, ‘ If I 
were to tell Douglas, he would kill him,’ — and it was 
not only the words, but even more her manner of say- 
ing them, that so startled me.” 

^‘One living as she does can scarcely,” said Mr. 
Jerred, ‘‘ avoidi having all sorts of odd fancies.” 

” I have been indulging in a few myself of late,” 
said Margaret Dyson smiling. “ I almost wish I 
had n’t such a good memory for phrases; they persist 
in coming back to me, bringing more fancies with 
them. The verse in the Psalms last Sunday, ‘ He shall 
keep the simple folk by their right, defend the children 
of the poor, and punish the wrong-doer,’ has been 
running in my head all the week, jostling with Mr. 
Karnes’s saying, * The death of a servant girl may be 
as full of tragedy as the assassination of a queen.’ But 
you are looking fatigued, Mr. Jerred, and I ought not 
to have kept you standing so long.” 

She moved to the outer door. She was rather under 
the medium height, but not at all of frail physique, and 
she needed no pampering, at home or elsewhere. She 
was in her twenty-fifth year. Clever people said her 


44 


The Sacred Cup 

beauty was of the intellectual type, and that her gifts 
demanded a wider sphere; Mr. Jerred, who was not 
clever, thought it was the beauty of a good woman, 
and he hoped that she would not desert lyamberfield. 
Her head seemed a little too large, but this was due in 
a measure to the loose way in which she dressed her 
abundance of gold-brown hair. 

The villagers knew Miss Tyson as their friend. 
Some of the men said of the Rector, “ He ’s a bit of an 
old woman, but you can trust him.” All the men and 
all the women said of Miss Tyson, She ’s a lady, and 
you can tell her anything.” They did not think of her 
as being particularly religious; perhaps this was owing 
to her father’s irregular attendance at church, and to 
her cheerful common-sense advice and help in times 
of trouble. She often talked to them very plainly, 
but always in charity, remembering their hardships 
and her own luxurious and fortified position. She 
marvelled how they could do as well as they did on so 
little, and tried to help them without letting them 
get the idea that they were receiving too much. 
She had taken tea again and again in every cottage; 
and all the cottagers had been her guests at Chantry 
House. She was with the Rector in their hearts, and 
when they gossiped about what might happen in the 
event of Sir Ardenne Tyson’s death, they prayed that 
her next home might be no farther away than the 
Rectory. 

Some thought she was more likely to go to Alard 


45 


The Sacred Cup 

Place as the wife of Mr. Camoys, but this was a less 
pleasant destiny — not because Gilbert Camoys was un- 
popular in the village, but because his aunt, Mrs. 
Lewknor, had provoked active dislike. They had 
meanwhile nothing to go upon beyond the fact that 
Miss Tyson and Mr. Camoys were often to be seen to- 
gether. Mrs. Tewknor took care that no news should 
leak out of Alard Place. 

‘‘You are not offended,’’ said Margaret, “at my 
having asked Mr. Margesson into the study, and keep- 
ing him company till you returned ? ” 

“Oh, no — not at all; it is just what you should 
do.’’ 

“You are sure you are n’t saying to yourself — 
‘ Brazen hussey ’ ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Miss Tyson ! ’ ’ 

She laughed as she opened the outer door. 

“ Well, as usual, I ’ve been doing all the talking, 
both in there and out here. He is very downcast, 
poor fellow, and seems to have a stronger wish than 
ever to leave the village. ’ 

“ Oh, no; he ought not to do that.” 

“ So I have been telling him. I had another proof 
of his manliness and honesty of heart by his not being 
in the least surprised, apparently, at the interest I take 
in the case. It is only the moral cowards who shun 
moral problems. If we were candid with ourselves we 
should confess that nothing interests us so much. 
There is a moral problem, more or less serious, in every 


46 


The Sacred Cup 


cottage in lyamberfield, and I know them all. A pretty 
kind of reputation I should get if I were to write my 
experiences! 

Roland must not go away/’ said Mr. Jerred. 

His mother needs him. He might be able to earn 
enough elsewhere to maintain her and himself, but, as 
I have told him, that is not the only thing to think of. 
She would fret very much if she were left alone. Peo- 
ple would n’t be unkind to her — oh, no; indeed, I sup- 
pose they would be kinder to her if he were gone; but 
she might continue to hear thoughtless words, and 
they would be still harder to bear in his absence.” 

” She appears to have threatened that if he leaves 
home she will go into the workhouse.” 

Yes; the poor,” said Mr. Jerred, often use that 
sad argument to their children.” 

‘‘It is also their indictment of society,” said Mar- 
garet, “ though they don’t know it. But in this in- 
stance, it would not mean a son’s ingratitude. Please 
go in and comfort him. All his hopes of obtaining re- 
lief from this wrong seem to be centred in you. We 
women are so held back by silly conventionalities when 
a man — especially a young man — is in trouble. I felt 
it in your study just now, and could not quite overcome 
the feeling; so we really scarcely mentioned what was 
most in our minds.” 

She turned to Mr. Jerred from the doorstep. The 
stem final light of the spring day was in her face, and 
to the Rector, looking out at her timidly and reveren- 


47 


The Sacred Cup 

tially, it was the face of a brave and beautiful and com- 
passionate woman. 

‘ ‘ If you think it would help him in any way, you 
might tell him I wished just now that I had been his 
sister. Good-night. ' ^ 

“ Good-night,’’ said Mr. Jerred. 

She went away without shaking hands with him. 
He did not at once shut the door, but stood gazing after 
her, or rather gazing in the direction she was going, 
until she was out of sight under the trees beyond the 
pathway of shrubs. 


CHAPTER VI 


Unuskd to probing bis emotions, invariably, indeed, 
keeping silent about them when they concerned no one 
but himself, Mr. Jerred did not understand as he en- 
tered the study why he should have felt glad at its be- 
ing only faintly lighted from the fire. The twilight is 
gracious and merciful to our vain regrets, our dreams 
of unattainable happiness. 

Roland Margesson rose from his chair on the hearth, 
and Mr. Jerred, holding both his hands, said, ‘‘ I told 
you Miss Lyson was your friend. She is sorry she is 
not your sister.*’ 

Roland made no answer, but he laughed softly, and 
Mr. Jerred’s insight supplied the rest. People often 
thanked him with a laugh, and he was never mistaken 
in his reading of it. He lighted the lamp on his desk, 
and they sat down before the fire. 

Mrs. Verdley may have mentioned that I have 
been to see the Bishop ? ’ ’ 

‘‘ Yes. I hope, sir, he is n’t going to send you to 
another church ? ” 

‘‘ No — it hardly amounted to that. I deserved a 
scolding, no doubt, but one does not always get it in 
48 


49 


The Sacred Cup 

the way one expects. A bishop, you know, is a kind 
of judge, and every now and then when things go 
wrong, some one must have something done to him. I 
beg your pardon, Roland, for speaking about myself at 
a time when I should be trying to lift you out of your 
trouble. How have you been getting on since I last 
saw 3^ou ? ’ ^ 

Much about the same, sir. You Ve stopped most 
of them from taunting me to my face. But I can see 
almost everybody thinks the worst of me. It ’s like 
you said in your sermon about slander being ship- 
wreck by a dry tempest.’’ 

^‘Ah, but that was not my own thought, and it 
did n’t apply to you, because we are not going to let 
you be shipwrecked. ’ ’ 

He regretted the bitterness in Roland’s smile, and 
hoped he was not too proud. Yet it was not a mean 
pride, but, rather the defect of an independent nature 
set amid antagonistic surroundings. The young man’s 
eyes, as Mr. Jerred looked at him in the firelight, had 
the lustre of health, biit his handsome face was dis- 
figured by an expression of resentment. He was sensi- 
tive, and subdued in manner; not very sociable, and 
fond of taking long country walks by himself. He 
was studious, and could talk intelligently about the 
books he had read. He was a good son, and this fact 
threw a glamour over all Mr. Jerred’s thoughts of him. 

It has always been such a mystery to me, Roland, 
how this unjust and cruel suspicion could have arisen.’* 


50 


The Sacred Cup 

** They never would have accused me of it, sir» if I 
had n’t gone away from home for two years. They 
think anybody who has worked in Tondon must be fit 
for anything. I ’ve no more cause to be ashamed of 
those two years than I have of my life in Tamberfield, 
and it is n’t fair to give me a black character when 
they know nothing against me. I never went so far 
as to call her by her Christian name. It was always 
‘ Miss Ollett,’ and she was as distant with me, the same 
as any other customer, and I only once or twice met 
her by accident out of doors. I suppose some one saw 
us, just saying a word to each other as we passed, and 
so their lies grew up out of it afterwards because the 
man who wronged her did n’t come forward.” 

” Yes, that is the whole story,” said Mr. Jerred, *‘as 
affecting yourself. It would not have been possible in 
a town, but our people here are so restricted in observa- 
tion that in a moral crisis it seems as though they must 
fix on some particular person. I was formerly curate 
in a rural parish where an event somewhat similar to 
this occurred, and caused the villagers to be divided 
into two hostile camps, each protesting angrily that the 
other was mistaken, and peace was not restored until 
long after the magistrates had heard the evidence and 
given their decision.” 

“ It ’s a blue lookout for me then,” said Margesson, 
“ for everybody believes me to be guilty.” 

I don’t, Roland.” 

‘‘ No— nor Miss Tyson. But these people are as ob- 


The Sacred Cup 


51 


stinate as mules when they get an idea into their heads. 
Then I ’m at a disadvantage from the fact that the poor 
girl had never been known to have a sweetheart. The 
women used to tease me about her when they came into 
the shop and found her there, and now they bring that 
up against me, too. Have nT you any notion, sir, who 
the man could be ? ^ * 

‘‘ None, Roland; my mind is a complete blank as to 
his identity. It is a wonderful thing, and I can’t get 
away from thinking of it.” 

What would you do if you were to discover him ? ” 

'' Oh, it is rather what would he do ? — I cannot say — 
I could not rest until he had come forward publicly 
and owned the child as his.” 

” Publicly?” 

” Yes ; it would have to be done before all the peo- 
ple who are doing you this grave injustice. I used to 
think,” said Mr. Jerred, leaning toward the fire and 
warming his hands, ” that injustice could be easily 
borne, as one’s conscience is everything ; but I know 
now that it is very hard when a loved one is made to 
suffer with us. Then we are taken out of ourselves, 
so to speak, and must act. That is why I don’t like 
you to think of going away, as your mother would re- 
main. But I hope your customers are beginning to 
come back ? ’ ’ 

Margesson shook his head. 

” Things could hardly be worse than they are. The 
business has been failing ever since the scandal began, 


52 


The Sacred Cup 

and if it were n’t for you and Miss Lyson we might as 
well close the shop. The vans come out regularly from 
Muntham, and get all the trade. I ’ve gone through 
the books with my mother, and shown her we can’t go 
on much longer under this cloud, but she hopes against 
hope, and is upset when I speak of applying for an- 
other situation. And it is n’t only that, sir.” 

” No — it is not merely a question of livelihood,” said 
Mr. Jerred, although that is so important, especially 
in the case of your dear mother. You must stay for 
her sake, Roland, and continue to put a brave front to 
this trial. In church on Sunday, as I looked at her, 
and at you in the choir, I recalled the beautiful promise, 
'As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort 
you.’ Ah, don’t forget that; don’t let us forget that. 
We may not understand this sorrow, but we know that 
all sorrow is sacred. My heart seems to be telling 
me, and to-day more strangely than hitherto, that 
others are to be drawn into it, and I pray that to none 
of us may it ever come in a form too bitter for submis- 
sion to the Divine will.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Whkn Margesson had gone, Mrs. Verdley lighted the 
lamp in the study, and brought Mr. Jerred one of the 
dainty little meals which made him think how wonder- 
ful women are, if only as cooks. He thanked her for 
nearly all the dinners she served him, and, as she 
mirthfully told her friends, each one seemed to be more 
perfect than the last. ‘‘ All he knows about eating 
and drinking,” she would say, is a good claret from 
a bad, and he don't always know that either if he 's 
got one of his Thy- kingdom-come fits on.” 

She was in the mood this evening to give him more 
shocks, and began to speak again about Miss Tyson, 
joining her name now with that of Mr. Camoys, but 
Mr. Jerred gave only a lukewarm response. 

On a hot day in the previous summer. Miss Tyson 
had left her hat on the Rectory hall table, and Mrs. 
Verdley had suddenly come upon the Rector holding it 
to his face, smelling the artificial roses. He had put it 
down abruptly, and immediately taken out his red 
handkerchief, and trumpeted into it with thrilling 
effect. And since then he had shown a disinclination 
to discuss Margaret Tyson with his housekeeper. 


53 


54 


The Sacred Cup 

He sat before the fire when he was alone, and said 
to himself, ‘‘ I must sum up all that has happened to- 
day.’’ 

His mind was austerely logical spiritually — the 
highest and most relentless form of logic (this is why 
the father of Lottie Ollett’s child stood in jeopardy 
every hour); but he was not adroit in arranging facts. 
The spiritual things live on over varying circumstance 
because they are the things of faith. So Mr. Jerred, 
instead of beginning with his visit to the episcopal 
palace, began with the figure by Lottie’s grave. He 
was glad he had always given Douglas Shulmere credit 
for sincerely loving the girl. Had she lived, and cared 
for him, her marriage with him would have been more 
lamentable almost than her death; but the supposition 
was incredible, and Mr. Jerred did not linger on it. 

His reflections presently induced in him a strange 
stillness. He saw two pieces of paper, and the hand- 
writing on each was the same. The one was in the 
Bishop’s study, when he had thrown down the anony- 
mous letter, after reading the postscript, “ This was not 
written by Mr. Camay s ; he had caught, entirely by 
accident, a glimpse of the writing as the letter lay on 
the prelate’s table. The other was the addressed en- 
velope he had seen beside the needlework in Floretta 
Shulmere’ s cottage. The handwriting in each case, 
he was convinced, was the same. 

This, then, accounted, at least in part, for her agi- 
tated demeanour towards him. She had spoken of Mrs. 


55 


The Sacred Cup 

Verdley’s telling her that he had been to see the Bishop. 
But why had she written to him, and anonymously ? 
He had been given the impression that her letter 
amounted simply to a statement of fact — that the child 
had been born at the Rectory, and was still there. Her 
communication, so far as he knew, or liked to believe, 
was free from vindictiveness. 

But what could have been her motive in sending it 
at all ? And why had she put in so singular a post- 
script? She must have had some purpose in view. 
She was an intelligent woman, and would not go out 
of her way to injure him or any one else. 

The bringing in of Gilbert Camoys’ name was in- 
explicable to Mr. Jerred. So far as he was aware, Mr. 
Camoys had never exchanged a word with Miss Shul- 
mere. He did not, unhappily, show much interest in 
the villagers; he was proud, and not at all well off, and 
as he could do nothing for them he no doubt thought 
it would be more dignified to keep them at arm’s 
length. He was known to be in debt, though the 
blame for this was rather assigned to Mrs. Tewknor’s 
extravagance; Mr. Jerred had been ‘'respectfully ap- 
proached” by anxious Muntham tradesmen as to the 
state of affairs at Alard Place, and had invariably given 
the not very consoling information that Mr. Camoys 
was a gentlemanly young man and attended church 
frequently with his aunt. 

The unaccountable thing was that Miss Shulmere 
should have concluded — or supposed — that the Bishop 


56 


The Sacred Cup 

might imagine that Mr. Camoys had written such a 
letter. Its burden, clearly, was the offence caused by 
the child’s being at the Rectory, but Mr. Camoys had 
never uttered a syllable to Mr. Jerred on the subject, 
and he was unaware that Miss Shulmere, or, indeed, 
any one in the parish, felt the smallest grievance on 
this account. They were frank enough to tell him of 
their suspicions of Roland Margesson, but they ap- 
peared to be pleased that the child was being so well 
cared for. 

Moreover, Lottie had been Floretta’s only intimate 
friend; the sunny-natured girl’s attachment for the 
melancholy woman had caused surprise in the village, 
and would have caused misunderstanding also, had it 
not been well known that she never went to the cottage 
in the untidy garden for fear of meeting Douglas; 
Floretta in those days often spending an evening at 
the Rectory, or going for a walk with Lottie in the 
meadows. There had been no break in their affection. 
It would therefore be so unnatural for Miss Shulmere 
to do anything to hurt her dead friend’s child. 

It was all ver}’' mysterious to the Rector; and at last, 
having grown hopelessly confused in thinking over it, 
he sought comfort, as so often before, in George Her- 
bert. By the time he had got through twenty verses 
of The Sacrifice^ with their heart-stilling refrain, ‘‘ Was 
ever grief like Mine?” he felt like one ready to say 
good-bye to earth’s troubles. Then he read two or 
three of the shorter poems, and began to drowse before 


57 


The Sacred Cup 

the fire, the book on his knee. In his sleeping- waking 
state his lips kept moving with a lingering sweetness 
on the lines: 

Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust, 

Thy hands made both, and I am there. 

Thy power and love, my love and trust. 

Make one place everywhere. 

All the most precious things of life,’’ Mr. Jerred’s 
tired spirit said to itself, ‘‘ are so near to us, and we 
have grown so familiar with them, that we have lost 
sight of them. A great mind in its simple moments 
will see them, and show us, and tell us, and then 
we call the discovery genius. But it only comes to 
‘ Consider the lilies of the field ’ — only to that, after 
all. . . • 


CHAPTER VIII 

Thk Rector was asleep when his housekeeper entered 
the study to say that Mr. Camoys had called. The 
child was in her arms. 

‘‘ The fire down to ashes ! she said, kneeling on the 
hearth to revive it. Baby ^s been in a temper, but 
gone off sound again. I never dreamed it was Mr. 
Camoys or I ’d have put him in his cot before answer- 
ing the door.” 

‘‘ If you knock the coal so hard,” said Mr. Jerred, 
''you may wake the child. Is it his teething that 
makes him troublesome ? Perhaps we ought to call in 
a doctor.” 

" Might as well call in the Bishop! ” 

" Ssh! Mr. Camoys does n’t know.” 

She looked up inquiringly, as though a new secret 
were tingling at her ears. 

" What does n’t he know, sir?” 

” That I have been to the palace. He may have 
heard. I will bring him in,” said Mr. Jerred, going 
into the hall. 

Gilbert Camoys met Mrs. Verdley as she was leaving 
the study. He stopped, looking at the child, and she 
58 


59 


The Sacred Cup 

thought it kind-hearted of him to have such a sympa- 
thetic expression in his fine eyes, and to give that pity- 
ing little sigh. He had never before actually taken 
notice of the child. One warm day, when she was out 
with it, he had turned as though to speak to her, but 
had suddenly gone on. 

His name is David, is n't it ? he said. 

“ Yes, sir. The Rector asked me to find a name for 
him, and I 've always been fond of David because he 
had a rough time of it when he was young, and knew 
how to deal with his enemies." 

Camoys bent his face over the child. Mr. Jerred 
watched him with an interest he could not have ex- 
plained. He seldom, to any one but his housekeeper, 
spoke of the child in a humorous or even cheerful 
tone. 

" He is asleep," said Camoys. Children are very 
much alike, are n't they ? " 

" I hope this one is n't going to be like his father," 
said Mrs. Verdley. 

Mr. Jerred was sure that Camoys momentarily closed 
his eyes and grew pale, and Mrs. Verdley was sure 
that he gave another sigh. He drew himself up, 
glanced to right and left, and again let his gaze rest on 
the child. He became more animated, but Mr. Jerred 
fancied he discerned a forced note in his gaiety. 

"Seems a sturdy little chap." He put one hand 
under the child's feet and another under its head. " I 
should think he would break if one were n’t careful." 


6o 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ He ’d scream before he did/’ said Mrs. Verdley. 

“ So they call you David. What are you going to 
do when you meet Goliath ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Give him a bit of his mind, I hope,” said Mrs. 
Verdley, “ if he ’s his father.” 

Camoys’ laugh sounded to Mr. Jerred painfully 
affected, and this was the more perplexing, as his 
laughter was usually so bright and pleasant. 

‘ ‘ May I hold him a minute ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes, sir.” 

‘‘I ’ll promise not to let him fall.” 

‘‘ I ’ll watch you don’t,” said Mrs. Verdley smiling. 

As Gilbert Camoys held Lottie Ollett’s child in his 
arms, looking down into its face, Mr. Jerred had the 
disagreeable sensation of an ingenuous man who 
feels that something apart from himself, yet binding 
upon his conscience, is compelling him to act the 
part of a spy. He recalled the anonymous letter to 
the Bishop, with its extraordinary postscript, and 
now it seemed to be connected in some way with 
this incident of Camoys’ perfectly natural pity for a 
helpless babe. 

“ I am rather a good nurse, don’t you think? ” 

‘‘ You might be worse,” said Mrs. Verdley, “ and I 
dare say you ’ll be better when you ’ve had more 
experience. ’ ’ 

‘‘ He is not very heavy.” 

“ Oh, is n’t he? Fat as butter! Look at these legs 
for four months! ” She lifted the clothes for Camoys’ 


6i 


The Sacred Cup 

admiration. ‘‘ I never knew a child of his age with 
such strength in his kick. And feed! Well, there — 
he *11 make a splendid big man if he *s spared, bless 
him!** 

“ Do people,** Camoys asked with a curious smile, 
** kiss children when they are as young as this ? ** 

‘‘You can if you want to, sir. The Rector only 
kisses his hands.** 

“ I don’t always do as the Rector tells us from the 
pulpit,** said Camoys, “ but I will follow his example 
in this.** He held one tiny hand to his lips, his fair 
moustache closing over it; then he raised the other in 
the same way; and then, as he was gently trying to 
kiss both hands at once, the child opened its eyes. 
“ Baby, baby,** said Camoys, in a tender, almost ador- 
ing accent; and, in that moment, Mr. Jerred had an ap- 
palling impression of identification which appeared to 
make his heart stand still. “ His eyes,** said Camoys, 
“ are blue, I think.** 

“ Yes, sir; the same as yours.** 

He kept his head down. In the intense silence, Mr. 
Jerred heard with unnatural clearness the swing of the 
pendulum of the eight-day clock in the hall. Then 
Camoys looked straight at Mrs. Verdley, and there 
was a peculiar twist in the corner of his mouth. 

“ I have friends who encourage my vanity by saying 
mine are Irish eyes.** 

“ There ’s violet in them, but more blue,** she an- 
swered, taking the child from him. 


62 


The Sacred Cup 

She left the study, Camoys holding open the door 
for her, and shutting it when she had gone. Mr. 
Jerred invited him to a chair by the fire, and himself 
sat down at the opposite end of the hearth. For some 
moments neither had anything to say. Camoys was 
wearing leggings, and stooped to put the straps right; 
had Mr. Jerred possessed the faculty for building up 
proof from small things he would have noticed that 
nothing was wrong with them. The stupefied disquiet 
of an incomprehensible estrangement was upon him. 
It was not a feeling of personal antagonism; it was, 
nevertheless, acutely personal, and at the same time 
impersonal. Of one thing in this vague, dreadful sus- 
picion he felt certain : it was in the line — in the inevit- 
able sequence — of Tottie’s betrayal. 

But there was a difference. Mr. Jerred had come to 
think of the girl’s sin and death as the profound sim- 
plicities of our common human frailty; but here there 
was a subtlety that dismayed him. It was not that 
Gilbert Camoys was subtle in himself. He was, on the 
contrary, of a simple nature, reputed as being upright 
and straightforward in his dealings with his fellows; 
frank, handsome, honest of countenance; one who 
worthily carried on the honourable tradition of a great 
name. The subtlety was in the circumstance; in Mr. 
Jerred’s dawning belief that he was destined to wit- 
ness the bitter humiliation of another young life; and 
most solemn thought of all — and where an awful sim- 
plicity began again, if he could then have understood 


The Sacred Cup 63 

it — in the moving hand of destiny upon these sad 
events. 

‘ ‘ We ’re getting some capital weather,” said Camoys. 

‘ ‘ Sharpish at nights, but it will keep things from 
rushing on too fast, and we may have a lot of frost 
yet.” 

” In the year I came to I^amberfield,” said Mr. 
Jerred, there was quite a keen frost in May.” 

” Yes; up here on the hills we get it as late as any- 
where. My father used to tell of a destructive snap in 
the middle of June.” 

” You were very young, I believe,” said Mr. Jerred, 
“ when your father died ? ” 

”A boy of fourteen. But I remember him quite 
well.” 

“And your mother — you lost your dear mother a few 
years later ? ” 

“Yes. I was sixteen then. That was when Mrs. 
Tewknor came to Alard.” 

“ You went to a public school, I understand ? ” 

“ Only for two years. My mother had an idea about 
Oxford, but things were pretty bad, and it did n’t run 
to that. My aunt is very clever, you know, and kept 
me up to the scratch.” 

“ It is perhaps to be regretted that you did not — that 
it was not found convenient for you to take up a career 
— to adopt a suitable profession.” 

“ I could n’t leave Alard now. I should n’t 
like to, at any rate. There is a good deal to do, 


64 


The Sacred Cup 

but the results would hardly maintain a house in 
Park lyane. I We lived practically all my life at 
Alard, and it would be a frightful blow if I had to 
clear out now/’ 

I hope,” said Mr. Jerred, there is no likelihood 
of that occurring.” 

“ I hope not,” Camoys answered sincerely. 

Their talk became more trivial. Camoys gave no 
explanation of his unexpected visit. Nor could Mr. 
Jerred draw any distinct conclusion as to why the 
young man had come. Though he warmly appreciated 
Camoys’ good qualities, he had not hitherto been 
greatly interested in him, — less so, indeed, than in 
Roland Margesson. Camoys had many advantages 
over Margesson; he belonged to a family which gave 
him from birth a position in the county, a position 
which, had there been wealth behind it, would have 
made him, apart from any special gifts of heart or 
mind, a leader in society; he had more polished man- 
ners than Margesson, and was handsomer and manlier. 
These attributes did not in themselves particularly ap- 
peal to Mr. Jerred. The obvious masculine type can 
never have more than a passing attraction for the mys- 
tical imagination; it is too closely allied to the aggres- 
sive, fiercely self-preservative forces of nature to be in 
harmony with the pure Christian spirit. But there had 
been a change; and now Gilbert Camoys interested Mr. 
Jerred far more than Roland Margesson had ever inter- 
ested him. 


The Sacred Cup 65 

“ Your garden is looking up to the mark, Rector. I 
noticed it as I passed the other day.’^ 

Yes; we have a great many daffodils, and the lilies 
of the valley are coming up nicely under the beech 
hedge. 

‘‘ There ^s a big hole in the hedge. Don’t the boys 
get in?” 

“ Occasionally. We shall have it stopped up before 
the birds begin to nest.” 

Camoys was again concerned with his leggings; Mr. 
Jerred now perceived that they were of brown leather, 
and he reflected that young men were generally careful 
about their dress. Mrs. Tewknor was believed to in- 
fluence her nephew considerably, and she was ex- 
tremely particular in these matters. Mr. Jerred would 
not have thought any the worse of the stylish lady at 
Alard Place had he known that she had described him 
as ‘‘ a horrid little sloven.” 

“ You do most of your gardening yourself, don’t you ? 
Miss Tyson says you are up to everything in it.” 

** I plod about on flne days. It is a healthy form of 
recreation, and primitive. But one is obliged to keep 
a gardener. The villagers might be offended if one 
were to do all the work one’s self.” 

Camoys had stood up, and was examining a row of 

pipes in a rack at the corner of the mantelshelf. He 

said he could n’t remember having seen the Rector 

smoking. Mr. Jerred replied that he did not smoke, 

but he could not resist the temptation to take a pinch 
5 


66 


The Sacred Cup 

of snuff when it was offered to him. The pipes were 
Mr. Karnes's: he had left them there to make him feel 
more at home during his visits to the Rectory. 

‘‘ I saw him on the Muntham road this morning," 
said Camoys, ‘‘trudging along at a terrific rate as 
usual." 

“ I, too," said Mr. Jerred, “ have been to Muntham 
to-day." He paused, gazing into the fire. “I went 
to the palace in response to a request made by the 
Bishop." He fell silent again, but it could not have 
been with the premeditated intention of observing the 
effect of his words on Camoys, for he did not raise his 
eyes. “ The Bishop wished to advise me with reference 
to the child." Mr. Jerred once more hesitated, and 
now he did look at his visitor. “ His lordship has ex-^ 
pressed the opinion that it should be removed from the 
Rectory." 

Camoys was now facing him. 

“The child?" 

“Yes." 

“Why?" 

“ Owing, I gathered, to the circumstances of its birth 
— its unhappy parentage — and the Bishop's apprehen- 
sion that scandal may be caused in the village." 

“ Well, but it 's rather late for him to take action — 
is n't it?" 

“ The fact of the child's being here has only recently, 
it appears, come to his knowledge." 

“ But what scandal is there? Nobody speaks about 


6 ; 


The Sacred Cup 

it. Everybody admires your pluck — your kindness. 
All the scandal there can be has been already, and is 
passing away — don’t you think ? ” 

It has not,” Mr. Jerred said gravely, “passed away 
from Roland Margesson.” 

“The village grocer? Yes — I ’ve heard some- 
thing about that. But it can’t really do him any 
harm.” 

“ I assure you,” said Mr. Jerred, “it is doing him 
very serious harm. It is injuring him in business, and 
the business is not solely his own. It is wounding his 
mother’s heart. Tike you, he is an only son, and we 
all value our good name and don’t like it to be taken 
from us unjustly.” 

“ Quite so,” said Camoys. 

He had seated himself again. A sudden change had 
come upon him. He sat upright in his chair; his back 
was to the lamp, but the firelight glowed in his face. 
All his faculties seemed to have been aroused. Mr. 
Jerred had never seen such dignity in his pose ; and 
there was a paradox of expression — challenge, hope, 
fear — in his eyes. 

“ Has the Bishop,” he asked, “ any right to make 
you do as he wants in a matter of this sort ? ’ ’ 

“ I believe he has no legal right.” 

“ Then you ’re not going to do it? ” 

“ The question of discipline comes in. A clergyman 
is bound to give the utmost consideration to any sug- 
gestion his Bishop may make. His lordship’s view is 


68 


The Sacred Cup 

that the child’s presence in my house is detrimental to 
the moral welfare of my parishioners. ’ ’ 

“ But surely you don’t agree with that ? I’ve never 
heard a whisper against you for what you ’ve done. 
Miss lyyson, who is the soul of honour, has often said 
how she admires you for having befriended the little 
one. Perhaps, sir — if I ’m not rude — you told the 
Bishop that no injury was being done to any one by 
your goodness ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Jerred was not prepared to give a plain answer 
to this. He might have evaded it by deprecating his 
own worthiness, but that would have savoured of cant, 
and already he had drifted into a disingenuousness of 
speech particularly unpleasant to him. A miasma of 
suspicion was choking his finer sensibilities, and he 
wished to have time to reflect. 

‘‘Not many hours have elapsed since my interview 
with the Bishop, and I am under obligation to visit him 
again shortly.” 

Camoys drew his chair nearer to the fire, and sat for 
some moments in silence, his shoulders bent forward, 
his clenched hands at his temples. 

‘‘ What would become of the child,” at last he said, 
not moving, ‘‘ if you were to give it up ? ” 

‘‘ The Bishop suggested a charitable institution.” 

Mr. Jerred in saying this was conscious of a certain 
harshness, even cruelty, not in himself, but arising 
compulsorily from the stress of the situation, and there 
was to him a significance almost terrible in the young 


6g 


The Sacred Cup 

man’s giving no sign of having noticed it. Camoys 
remained perfectly still, and then, misinterpreting Mr. 
Jerred’s action in turning to the table to see if the 
water bottle was there, he rose to go. 

'‘I ’ve been wasting your time, sir.” 

You must not say that. I am always at your serv- 
ice. Come — come again, please, if there is anything 
I can do for you.” 

Camoys crossed to the middle of the room. 

” I beg your pardon for having been so inquisitive 
about what, of course, does n’t concern me. But the 
truth is, I ’ve thought more about all that you ’ve done 
for the child — and its mother ’ ’ 

He hesitated, as though expecting the Rector to in- 
terrupt him. Then he smiled; it struck Mr. Jerred as 
being his habitual frank smile, and yet in the same in- 
stant he could not help accusing him of duplicity. 

My aunt laughs at me for getting sentimental over 
some things. I tell her we ’ve all got our weak 
points.” He stepped towards the door. ” I take it 
the child won’t in any case be sent away from the 
Rectory until you ’ve seen the Bishop again?” 

“No. Certainly not till then.” 

“ So it will be here for a week or two in any case ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Camoys opened the door, but he did not go out. 
There was no intentional discourtesy in Mr. Jerred’ s 
remaining on the hearth; he felt sure that the young 
man would not leave yet. Camoys came back, and 


70 


The Sacred Cup 

Stood before Arnold Karnes’s pipes. He ran his fingers 
over the stems. He took one out, examined it with an 
air of great curiosity, and returned it to the rack. He 
took out another, and held it to the lamp. 

“ He seems to be fond of preaching in your church.” 

” They have two curates at Wivelscote, and the vicar 
can spare him. He enjoys the walk to Tamberfield, 
and says he can preach better after it. We are old 
friends.” 

“ So Miss Tyson tells me. She admires Mr. Karnes 
too. His sermons have rather a riddling effect some- 
times — don’t you think ? ” Camoys put back the pipe^ 
and again made for the door. ” He gets hold of queer 
texts.” 

” The text of the last sermon he gave us,” said Mn 
Jerred, ” was scarcely unusual. ‘ Of whom shall I be 
afraid?’ ” 

” Yes. He spoke of the inexplicable justice of God. 
That phrase has stuck in my head somehow — I don’t 
know why.” 

” As I reminded him afterwards,” said Mr. Jerred, 
” there comes a time when we may not apply any ad- 
jective to the Divine justice. It is so plain, so impera- 
tive, there can be no definition, no appeal. We can 
only bow our heads, repent, and submit.” 

Camoys stepped across the threshold. 

” Good-night, Rector,” he called from the hall. 
” Don’t leave your warm study. I can let myself out.” 

Mr. Jerred heard the outer door being opened and 


71 


The Sacred Cup 

shut. He sat for twenty minutes — the time seemed 
much longer to him — alone before the fire. Then he 
suddenly got up, turned down the lamp, and went into 
the hall. He was putting on his cloak and hat, when 
Mrs. Verdley, coming through from her room, inquired 
where he was going at such a late hour, and urged that 
it was wintry cold. 

I must go,’' he said. I cannot rest until I have 

spoken to Miss Shulmere ” 

He hurried out. 


CHAPTER IX' 

Thk postman, on this same evening, met Douglas 
Shulmere outside the Black Swan, and fell into conver- 
sation with him. They had been at the village school 
together, and both being in a companionable mood, old 
times were recalled. By-and-by the postman said his 
‘‘throat wanted damping'*; but Shulmere’ s pockets 
were empty, and he was too proud to risk being taunted 
with not paying for a drink in return. After a while, 
however, they went in, and continued to talk at the 
bar. The postman, unaware of making a disclosure, 
spoke of a letter which had been sent to Shulmere’ s 
sister by Lottie Ollett after her flight to Muntham. 

“ It was the only letter she posted for anybody in 
Lamberfield between the time she bolted and Mr. 
Jerred fetched her back. I ’ve often wondered what 
was in it.” 

“You may have been mistaken,” Shulmere said 
with inward gaze. 

“ Oh, no, I was n’t. I said to your sister when I 
delivered it, ‘ Now you ’ll get the news where she is,’ 
and she said, ‘ It ’s from Lottie.’ Has n’t she ever 
told you ? ’ ’ 


72 


73 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ No — not what was in it/’ 

She would tell the Rector.” 

” I don’t think she did. He found out where she 
was through the police.” 

” But I mean about — you know,” said the postman, 
winking. 

Shulmere made no reply. He finished drinking his 
ale, and left the inn. He was going home to have this 
out with Floretta, but he did not go at once. He took 
an unfrequented path on the hill side of Chantry House, 
and made in a roundabout way for Vallum wood. 

Douglas Shulmere was not an ill-looking fellow, in 
spite of the sad disfigurements of degeneracy, and he 
could be urbane and even winning in manner, especially 
to strangers who gave him the idea that they thought 
him a gentleman down on his luck. He was tall, 
walked feebly, just lifting his feet from the ground, but 
there was the ghost of inherent grace in his carriage. 
His mother said he had inherited his gentlemanly air 
from his grandfather. His eyes usually expressed an 
inofiensive intelligence, but they were sometimes ma- 
licious and cruel. His beard was so thin, fair, and fine 
of texture that in an artificial light he appeared to be 
clean-shaven. His voice was subdued and refined, but 
in nervous fury it rose to a beast-like scream, telling 
horribly of the instinct in him that rebelled against his 
inherited and acquired imperfections. 

He did not stay long in Vallum wood. He could 
ordinarily see the beauty of moonlight on old grey 


74 


The Sacred Cup 

walls, and answer to the message of the wind in the 
trees, but to-night he was at war with nature. He 
returned across the meadows, and so round to the road 
by the Rectory. It was there that he met Gilbert 
Camoys, coming from his fateful interview with Mr. 
Jerred. 

Camoys, an unwonted desire upon him to receive 
and give sympathy, stopped and said in a friendly 
tone, ‘'Well, Shulmere, and how are you getting 
on?’^ 

“ All right,*' was the sullen answer. 

“ There will be a job for you at Alard soon, if you 
want it.’* 

‘‘ I don’t want it,” said Shulmere, and passed on. 

He had not a penny in the world, but had Camoys 
offered him money he would not have taken it. His 
heart was full of envy, and of course it hurt himself 
more than it hurt any one else. It prevented him 
from going forth into the clear-shining atmosphere 
where we hear the call to high endeavour, and become 
ourselves, listening to no other voice. His spiritual 
and mental faculties were warped and starved by this 
meanest of all the vices: men of far greater gifts are so 
warping and starving themselves every day, and with- 
out Douglas Shulmere* s excmse of unenlightening en- 
vironment. He had not yet the faintest suspicion that 
Gilbert Camoys had held Dottie Ollett in his arms in 
the east copse at Alard Place; but, apart from this 
crowning incitement to revenge, he could have given 


The Sacred Cup 


75 


a hundred reasons for hating the man who was habit- 
ually spoken of by the villagers as a “ gentleman.’’ 

If Shulmere’s vengeance should ever fall on Camoys 
there would be nothing noble in the act itself or in its 
circumstances. It would be corrupt and vague in mo- 
tive, hatred of a class as much as hatred of an indi- 
vidual, — an act largely of weak, despairing revenge on 
society and on himself for his own misery and degrada- 
tion. It would be crafty, lurking, cowardly. It would 
hide itself in the dark, and spring when there could be 
no defence. It would not cry out in tragic grandeur to 
Heaven, ‘‘ This man has betrayed the innocent blood, 
and I have executed judgment upon him, and am ready 
to take the consequences.” It would be the revenge 
of the envious soul, and that indeed may be pitiful, 
but our pity is for the victim rather than for the exe- 
cutioner, and we do not cover our faces and say, “ This 
is the lyord’s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.” 

Shulmere, nevertheless, could not have been wholly 
bad or there would have been no pity in his love for the 
girl at whose grave Mr. Jerred had heard him weep an 
hour before he joined the postman at the inn. He was 
congenitally infirm of will, and could not make his own 
opportunities. They called him lazy in Tamberfield, 
but that was not an exhaustive criticism. As a boy 
he had made ingenious sketches, and his parents had 
flattered him as one extraordinarily endowed, and de- 
stined for fame. They began the wrecking of his life 
by neglecting to put him to a trade. Had his sister 


76 


The Sacred Cup 

been strong of purpose, and set at naught the parental 
tradition of misguided devotion, which was proving to 
Douglas a curse rather than a blessing, he might have 
drifted to Dondon, and there speedily come to an end. 

He did work fitfull}^ in Muntham, Wivelscote, and 
the surrounding villages, — he had a curious repugnance 
to working for those who knew him, — and he would 
leave his earnings, or the greater part of them, on the 
mantelpiece, saying nothing to Floretta. She had shed 
tears on finding the money there, and thought how 
hard was his lot and how poor mother would grieve if 
she could see his sufferings! He was unkind to her 
now, but her hope in him was not dead, and never 
would die. She believed he was very unfortunate, and 
would do better if he had a chance. She took little 
pleasure in anything, but she ministered to him with- 
out complaint, denying herself common necessaries for 
his sake. And it was only recently, since the death 
of Lottie Ollett, that she had feared his violence. She 
feared it, indeed, less for herself than for Mr. Camoys, 
and she dreaded still more the terrible consequences to 
her brother. 

Shulmere cautiously opened the door of his home. 
His caution was not due to any definite purpose. He 
knew that one of his uncontrollable outbursts of rage 
was coming on, and at such times he was always dull 
in appearance and secretive in his movements. 

The passage was in darkness. The soles of his boots 
were worn down, and made no sound. He looked into 


77 


The Sacred Cup 

the kitchen, but could see nothing save the zinc-like 
patch of window. 

He entered the sitting-room; the lamp had been 
taken away, the room being dimly lighted from a low 
fire. His sister, he concluded, had gone out, but she 
would not be long: except when she went to Muntham 
to sell her needlework, she would keep to the house for 
days. 

She must have left the lamp in the kitchen, but 
Shulmere did not want it. He sat in the armchair 
which his mother had often vacated for him so that he 
might be more comfortable. The fire was going out, 
and there was fuel in a box in a corner close to him, 
but he did not stir. His brain was confused, not with 
the ale he had drunk, but with the nervous surcharge 
which awaited the moment of explosion. 

Yet he was quite lucid as to what he intended to do. 
He was going to compel his sister to show him Lottie’s 
letter, or, if she had destroyed it, to tell him its con- 
tents. He had never received a letter from Lottie. 
His sister, in receiving one and not telling him of it, 
had defrauded him. He almost persuaded himself that 
the letter had been addressed to him. 

He sat in a welter of vitiated sentiment, dreaming 
about the girl until she seemed to be alive and very 
near to him. It may be that had he not lost her, had 
she not shared his own fate of unmerited misfortune, 
there would not have been this fanatical worship of her 
memory. He imagined that all that was good in him, 


78 


The Sacred Cup 

all his hopes, on earth and beyond, were concentrated 
in her, and that she had been murdered, and he was 
being murdered after her. One moment his imagina- 
tion rose in contemplation of the ideal love, the perfect 
woman, the only woman who could have saved him: 
the next, it hovered like a poisonous insect over the 
green slime of his hatred of the unknown man who had 
taken her from him and cruelly wronged her. 

He was capable in such moods of complete self-de- 
lusion. He did not once recall the sobering, educative 
truth, the girl's final answer to him, given with shrink- 
ing pity and fear one night by the church, ** Oh, I 'm 
so sorry — very, very sorry — but I could n't marry you, 
no, not if you were the only man in the world." 

A man may hear this from the woman he loves, and 
still raise his eyes to the stars. Had Douglas Shulmere 
possessed the courage to remember it, and the self- 
respect to face it manfully, the rural gutter would not 
have been his fate; the prayer to be worthy of being 
loved would have opened up a brighter future for him. 

His thoughts had wandered again to the postman's 
disclosure, when he heard a slight noise overhead, and 
concluded that his sister was in the room. The ceiling 
was so flimsy a step could be discerned anywhere on 
the upper floor. She could not be going to bed. She 
always left his supper in the sitting-room when the fire 
was lighted there in cold weather, and he could see no 
sign of it. Moreover, neither of them retired to rest, 
as a rule, until long after the village was asleep. He 


79 


The Sacred Cup 

listened, and plainly heard something being drawn 
across the floor. What could she be doing ? 

He went into the passage, and looked up the stair, 
but could see nothing. He crept up noiselessly, and 
stood outside the door of his sister’s room. A light 
came from under it; she must, then, have taken up the 
lamp. All was silent for some moments. Then there 
was a creaking sound, as of rusty hinges being forced, 
and Shulmere knew that his sister had pulled out the 
old trunk which she kept under her bed. 

He suddenly opened the door, and looked in. Flo- 
retta was on her knees beside the trunk. It was open, 
and she held a letter in her hand. 

So that ’s where you ’ve hidden it from me all this 
time! ” 

She saw the frenzy upon him, and gave a cry of 
terror. He rushed in and tried to snatch the letter 
from her. She threw herself forward out of his reach, 
her elbows delving down into the trunk, but he fiercely 
seized her arm, and pulled her back, shouting, ‘‘ Cheat 
and thief I I want that letter! ” 

She wrenched herself from his grip, threw herself on 
the floor and writhed at his feet like a woman in con- 
vulsions, uttering no intelligible word but only inco- 
herent cries — and then she leaped up and fled out on to 
the landing, swiftly shutting the door after her. The 
key was in the lock on the outside, and the instant she 
turned it her brother crashed himself against the door, 
splitting the panels. 


CHAPTER X 


F1.0RKTTA slipped down-stairs, and ran out into the 
garden. As she pulled open the gate, she heard the 
smashing of a window-pane in her room; Shulmere 
had thrown a book through it. She hurried on past 
the schools, making for the Rectory, but at the turning 
opposite the shop, she almost ran into Mr. Jerred’s 
arms. 

‘‘ Miss Shulmere! ’’ 

‘‘Take it, take it,'' she cried, thrusting the letter 
into his hand. “ Douglas knows, and he 'll murder 
Mr. Camoys if he reads it! For God's sake, take it and 
keep it! " 

She was gliding away, but Mr. Jerred went after 
her, saying he did not understand why — why the letter 
should be given to him, and she stopped and breath- 
lessly explained that it had been sent to her by Eottie 
Ollett while in concealment at Muntham. She told 
him of its contents, and said she had kept it so that the 
identity of the child's father might be proved. It had 
been a burden on her mind ever since Eottie had died 
without speaking of him, lest it should get lost, or fall 
into her brother's hands, but whatever might happen 
80 


8i 


The Sacred Cup 

now she would have no more to do with it — the con- 
stant dread of its being discovered by Douglas had been 
wearing her into her grave. Her only object in keeping 
it was to prevent him from knowing what I^ottie said 
about Mr. Camoys. She had never meant to destroy 
the letter; she implored the Rector to believe that. 

‘‘ Yes, yes,’^ he assured her. 

‘'And you 'll promise, sir," she pleaded, “ not to tell 
Douglas what 's in it? If he were to know, and the 
mad fury came on him some night when he met Mr. 
Camoys in a lonely place " 

“You may be sure," said Mr. Jerred, “ I shall do 
nothing that is likely to cause violence." 

Until he had read the letter he could say no more. 
He asked if he understood rightly that she wished him 
to retain possession of it, and she replied, “ Oh, yes ; 
it 's safer with you than with me; I 've never con- 
sidered Mr. Camoys in the matter, except how my 
brother might act towards him." 

Mr. Jerred accompanied her to the gate of the neg-^ 
lected garden. No sound of disturbance now came 
from the cottage; Shulmere's epileptic outburst had 
spent itself. He had broken open the door of his 
sister's room, and taken the lamp down to the sitting- 
room. The light shone from the window, and Floretta 
was reassured by this, and also by the outer door hav- 
ing been shut. 

“When he is like that," she whispered, “it soon 
passes, and he does n't know what he has been doing." 


82 


The Sacred Cup 

“ If you have any reason to fear him now,” said Mr. 
Jerred, “ I will go in with you/* 

“ No — no; I would rather you did n’t; he will be 
quieter than before. Those rages so exhaust him! 
He won’t speak to me, and if I were to complain of his 
conduct he would begin to cry.” 

Does he express regret ? ” 

” No. He does n’t seem to remember what he has 
said or done.” 

She went inside the gate, but lingered there, turning 
her back to Mr. Jerred in her singular manner, and 
when he said, You must not stay out in the cold, 
Miss Shulmere, with nothing on your head,” she an- 
swered, “I ’m so sorry I have n’t anything nice for 
his supper.” 

Mr. Jerred asked her to come to the Rectory, and 
Mrs. Verdley would be happy to supply her needs, but 
she said, “ No — no, thank you, sir,” and moved down 
the path. 

He waited a moment, and she returned, as though 
there were something else she had to say to him; still 
she did not speak, and stood again with averted face. 

He knew how heavy and bitter was her cross; he 
had his own to bear also, and it had not been made 
lighter by this soiled and crushed letter he held in his 
hand. But he could find no words of comfort. There 
are times when we can no more than stand by sorrow 
in the hallowed equality of inarticulation. Sympathy 
may express itself faintly in acts, always in very gentle 


83 


The Sacred Cup 

acts, in the touch of the hand, a look in eyes which 
may be tearless, perhaps in a smile, but it cannot tell 
all, and the humble soul knows this and is silent. 

'‘You told me, sir, you paid a visit to the Bishop to- 
day. Was it — may I ask — about an anonymous letter 
he has received ? ’’ 

“ Yes; partly with reference to that, and partly with 
reference to another matter.^’ 

“ I wrote that letter to the Bishop, Mr. Jerred.” 
Seeing how ill at ease she was, he turned his eyes 
from her towards the church. 

I have been wondering,** he said, quite without 
reproach in his tone, “ whether you did. I noticed a 
letter on your table this evening, and the writing ap- 
peared to be the same.” 

‘ ‘ The Bishop showed it to you ? * * 

” No. As it was unsigned he would not, I think, 
have been discourteous to the writer in doing so, but 
he did not, and only read the postscript to me.** 

” Oh,** she said, ” I *m so ashamed for having sent 
it! But the child being at the Rectory was constantly 
making Douglas think of Lottie — and of the other man 
— and one day I was carried away by the wicked 
thought that if I were to write and tell the Bishop it 
was there, he might ask you to find another home for 
it. You *11 say I was cunning and heartless! ** 

‘‘I don*t accuse you. Miss Shulmere,’* Mr. Jerred 
said kindly. ” I cannot forget what you have had to 
bear, and in times of suffering and perplexity it is so 


84 


The Sacred Cup 


easy for our acts to be outside our better nature. 
Why/* he asked, ‘‘ did you add that strange post- 
script? Mr. Camoys, I trust, had nothing^ — was in no 
way the instigator of your communication ? *’ 

‘‘ No, no; I put it in to shield him, thinking the 
Bishop might make inquiries — and perhaps suspect 
Mr. Camoys ; but as soon as I posted it I saw I had 
done just what I had hoped to avoid. Oh, Mr. Jerred, 
how I have prayed that no ill-feeling might be caused 
between you and the Bishop through this! ** 

‘‘ He is displeased at the child’s being at the Rectory, 
but it is not impossible that the difficulty may be amic- 
ably arranged, and you must not trouble yourself about 
it any more. ‘‘If,” Mr. Jerred added, ‘‘ your brother 
should again refer to the letter you have just given me, 
be sure you tell him the truth — that it is in my posses- 
sion — and leave him to deal with me with regard to it.” 

But Floretta told Douglas she had torn it up and 
thrown the pieces down the well. It was the first thing 
that came into her head when she entered the house, 
and found him standing at the sitting-room door. She 
had destroyed it, she said, not because there was any- 
thing in it that might not have been read by everybody 
in I^amberfield, but because he would have kept it and 
moped over it, and she wanted him to forget Dottie. 

Her brother made no reply. She set out his supper 
of bread and cheese and a cup of cocoa, and then 
dragged herself up to her room, leaving him sitting 
down-stairs before the empty grate. 


CHAPTER XI 


Mr. JkrrKd did not at once on his return to the 
Rectory read the dead girl’s letter. He shut himself up 
in his study, scarcely moving until Mrs. Verdley and 
the housemaid came in for prayers. After he had 
wished them good-night, he sat for half an hour read- 
ing the Psalter. 

He was calmer than he had been all day. He lighted 
his candle, made sure that the front door was locked 
and bolted, and went up-stairs. When half-way, up he 
remembered he had left his cloak and hat on the hall 
table, and returned to remove them, in order that Mrs. 
Verdley might not be annoyed by his untidiness in the 
morning. She had herself hung them on the rack, and 
he was grateful to her for giving him this unobtrusive 
lesson in orderliness. He noticed now that she had 
bought him a new pewter candlestick, having a wide 
rim, so that he might not, as she said, let the candle 
drip on his clothes and all over the house. He could 
feel grateful for very little, and, having no cynicism, 
he was never ashamed of his gratitude, not even when 
it seemed to be misplaced. In the hearts of men and 
women who give more than they receive, there wells 
up an inexhaustible spring of thankfulness. 

85 


86 


The Sacred Cup 


In his bedroom he read a chapter of Jeremy Taylor; 
and a sense of cloistral seclusion and rest fell upon 
him. He had postponed till this moment the reading 
of Lottie Ollett’s letter. 

The candlestick was almost too wide for the mantel- 
shelf, but Mrs. Verdley could not have known of his 
custom of putting it there for a few minutes before 
going to bed, so that he might have as his last sleeping 
impression the beautiful picture called In the Sa7?ie 
Night hi which He was Betrayed, which a dear friend 
had given him at his ordination. He took the letter 
from his breast pocket, and reverently unfolded it. 
The date on it was that of the day before he had found 
Lottie and brought her home. 

Dear Feorei^a, — I dont know if you have heard I have 
ran away never to come back again. I told you I would if 
Mrs. Verdley began to speak and she did tho not unkind. The 
Rector would never let anybody know if he could help it. O 
how good hes been to me Floretta but its that makes it harder 
to look in his face again. 

I have never told anybody but you it was Mr. Camoys and 
you must keep it a secret Floretta. I am sure he will do all he 
can thats right when he knows this trouble on me. 

I do so want to see Mr. Jerred but I never will again in this 
world. O Floretta I do so want to tell him how sorry I am for 
this disgrace and shame after all he has done for me. I cant 
remember my own father or mother and often Mrs. Verdley did 
laugh when I said Father Jerred this or that. Do take care of 
your cough Floretta. 

A poor woman who sells shoelaces and matches in a basket 
is coughing awful in the room next mine and makes me cry to 
think of you. I cry for myself Floretta often and cant hardly 
see what Im writing but its no use and yet stops me from the 


The Sacred Cup 87 

thought to go out on the city wall behind the house and drop 
into the canal. 

I would have done it Floretta but Mr. Jerreds kind eyes 
always look at me when I think of it as if he was saying Lottie 
Lottie like he did that night I tried to run away and he found 
me on the straw. 

Floretta be sm-e not to tell Douglas I have wrote. From 
your true and loving friend 

Lottie Ottett. 

PS. I forgot Mr. Hoddinott has my Sunday boots to mend 
and if you want to pay for them he said 2/3 or 6^. you could 
have them Floretta. 


CHAPTER XII 


Mr. JbrrKd, waking in the morning before any one 
else was astir in the Rectory, got up and went out into 
his garden. The sun had risen, but was obscured by 
grey clouds faintly coated with crimson, and the hushed 
mystery of dawn was still on the hills. Hoar-frost had 
fallen, and the earth glistened with virginal white. 

The Rector strolled about his garden, but could not 
see that anything had been hurt by the nip. The 
daffodils were in sheltered places, and the crocuses, 
just peeping above ground, had wisely shut themselves 
tight against the cold. The rooks swirled cawing 
about their nests, almost musical in the keen morning 
air, and birds were darting hither and thither in and 
across the garden and the surrounding plantation, but 
they were not singing as blithely as usual, Mr. Jerred 
thought. It may be that though peace had come into 
his own heart it was without song. 

Yet he appeared so happy as he sat at breakfast that 
Mrs. Verdley asked him if he had decided to tell the 
Bishop he was not going to give the child up. 

‘‘ I shall be obliged,’’ he answered, “ to see his lord- 
ship again, in any case.” 


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He was bright and placid all the morning, but in the 
afternoon he became very depressed, and for once a 
talk with Margaret Lyson had no stimulating effect 
upon him. 

He considered whether he should go to Wivelscote 
and lay the whole matter before Arnold Karnes, but 
hesitated to take this course, fearing his friend might 
suggest measures of a painful nature, especially with 
regard to the Bishop’s intervention. So he did not go 
to Wivelscote, and yet, as the miserable days and weeks 
passed, he felt aggrieved that Arnold did not come to 
I^amberfield. 

Nothing meanwhile happened in the village. Miss 
Shulmere went on with her needlework, and was sel- 
dom seen out of doors; Douglas continued to roam 
about the neighbourhood, picking up a little money 
here and there, no one exactly knew how, and shun- 
ning his old associates more than ever. 

To the villagers the Rector seemed to have no cares. 
For he would not add to their trials by casting over them 
the shadow of his own. He was at all times ready to 
answer to their call, and his kindness never failed. 

One dark, stormy, bitterly cold night — a night in 
which, his housekeeper said, it would have been in- 
human to turn out a dog — news was brought to the 
Rectory of an old labourer dying in the wilds three 
miles away, and Mr. Jerred went to minister to him; 
assuring Mrs. Verdley on his return that he had not 
really found it so very cold, and the night was not so 


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dark when he got out on the highroad, and the walk 
had done him no harm. His sermons at this period 
were full of a touching entreaty to be of good cheer. 

He carried Lottie’s letter about with him, but did 
not read it again, lest harsh thoughts of Gilbert Canioys 
should possess his heart. He met Gilbert at Chantry 
House, but avoided him as much as he could, at the 
same time accusing himself of culpable timidity for not 
telling him of the letter. 

How could he make the disclosure, and do nothing ? 
Something must be done, and it was just the doing of 
this something which so distressed and perplexed Mr. 
Jerred. He was not held back by any feeling that the 
girl’s request to Miss Shulmere for secrecy was binding 
on his own conscience. Her death had changed the 
situation entirely; his duty was now, indeed, to his 
conscience and to the child and to Roland Margesson. 
He was continually being prompted by his inner self to 
put an end to the delay, but having the contemplative 
mind he was not, of course, a man of action, and the 
very gentleness and charity of his reflections compli- 
cated the difficulty. 

He would do nothing, he feared, until he had sought 
Arnold’s advice. 

His speculations as to what Camoys might do were 
largely coloured by the thought of what he would 
himself do in like circumstances, and this hardly 
helped him towards a practical solution. Camoys, he 
hoped, would voluntarily come forward, admit the 


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wrong he had done, and make such reparation as was 
now in his power. The hope was slender, and Mr. 
Jerred was reluctantly compelled to abandon it as the 
result of his closer observation of the young man. Ex- 
perience had taught him that regret may be none the 
less sincere though it is not worn in the noonday sun, 
but he could see no sign of contrition in Camoys. His 
face told no tale of bad quarters of an hour in the 
lonely watches of the night. All the evidence went to 
show that he was fairly satisfied with himself and with 
this excellent world as he found it. He fell short of 
the heroic mould, and he had no taste for standing in 
the market-place to confess his sins. In the ordinary 
affairs of life, he could be trusted implicitly to do what 
was right — at least what was deemed right in the code 
of worldly prudence; and here was an issue in which 
that code excused evasion, slyness, — even, in extreme 
cases, open and flagrant lying. 

Mr. Jerred gradually came to understand all this 
and more, and in his sense of personal helplessness, he 
began to wonder if Arnold had completely forgotten 
him. He did not falter in his resolve that justice must 
be done, but he wavered greatly as to the most charita- 
ble method of bringing it about. He could not resist a 
feeling of solemn indignation against Camoys, and in 
his more austere moods he favoured sharp punish- 
ment; but he felt no resentment towards him, and saw 
pathos in his apparent unconsciousness of danger im- 
pending over him. 


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The Sacred Cup 

Mr. Jerred, indeed, was very willing to make every 
allowance for Camoys. The restrictions of his social 
position had evidently made him unresponsive to the 
moral law as it affected a lower social grade. He must 
have imagined himself as buttressed by convention- 
alities. If he were to be compelled to meet this charge, 
his friends would no doubt support him in denial of it, 
and in doing so think it no dishonour to themselves or 
to him. They would point to the girl and say, ‘‘ What 
was she? and to the man and say, “We know what 
he is: a perfect type of honest, sane, well-disposed 
manhood; his record clean; no whisper of disgraceful 
conduct ever heard against him.’’ 

But there was Mr. Jerred’s side of the question. To 
him the moral law was part of the law of God. It was 
supreme over all social conventions. It clearly defined 
right and wrong, and had no respect of persons. So 
that Gilbert Camoys would have to deal, not with an 
insignificant little man in a secondhand cloak and a 
dingy hat, but with the Divine authority which this 
little man claimed very humbly to represent. 

And then there was the ominous figure of the Bishop 
looming in the distance. He ought again to go to the 
palace, but he did not feel equal to the strain of another 
episcopal interview. His lordship’s secretary had duly 
forwarded the papers relating to “ suitable charitable 
institutions,” and Mr. Jerred had put them away in 
his desk without reading them. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Gilbert Camoys one afternoon called at the Rec- 
tory; it was his first visit since he had held the child 
in his arms, and Mr. Jerred was glad he did not come 
alone; with him were his aunt, Sir Ardenne Tyson, 
and Margaret Tyson. 

Camoys, it appeared, had suggested the visit. The 
Rector chanced to be in his garden, and Mrs. Tewknor 
immediately said, '' Please don’t ask us to go in; we 
have been lunching at Chantry House, and are not at 
all fatigued.” 

She had not once entered the Rectory since the birth 
of the child. Mrs. Tewknor was a round-headed, wiry 
little woman, and persisted (so Sir Ardenne Tyson put 
it) in dancing on the tight-rope of forty, though she 
must have been sixty at least. She had very black 
hair — Mr. Jerred blushed when she caught him looking 
at it — restless black eyes, thin lips that were always 
twitching as if she were speaking to herself, and 
beautiful hands loaded with enormous rings. Her 
attire was in the most recent fashion, but she was 
clever enough not to make herself ridiculous by letting 
it be too juvenile. She carried an eyeglass, which she 
used perpetually, but never kept it in her eye for more 
93 


94 


The Sacred Cup 

than a second at a time. She peered through it so 
swiftly at everything that it seemed doubtful whether 
she really saw anything. She twirled it up to look at 
a bit of earth on the Rector’s shirt-sleeve, then at a 
straw on his boot, then in rapid, bird-like jerks of her 
head at a spade, a tin can, a trowel, a gooseberry bush, 
a piece of flint glistening in the sun — everything that 
was near, trivial, obvious. She had an insatiable in- 
solence of superficial observation. Sometimes she 
picked things up, twirled them under her eyeglass, and 
contemptuously threw them away; then she would 
blow on her fingers and wave them in the air. She 
was an incurable old chatterbox, and talked with 
lively self-confidence on all sorts of subjects, listening 
to nobody. She would rattle on for an hour at Gilbert 
(if he gave her the chance) without noticing that he 
was paying no heed to what she was saying. 

Mr. Jerred shrank into his shell whenever she began 
to prattle about religion. Margaret smiled at his naive 
admission that he had ‘‘a certain secular veneration for 
Mrs. lyewknor.” 

She was Camoys’ maternal aunt, and had ruled 
autocratically at Alard since his mother’s death, keep- 
ing him in ignorance of the true state of affairs. She 
attended Mr. Jerred’ s first Easter vestry meeting, and 
he remembered, almost with horror, how she had taken 
him in hand, instructed him in the conduct of parish 
business, and declared her intention of leaving the 
church if he did n’t stop intoning the prayers. To- 


95 


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day, however, she might have patronised the Twelve 
Apostles and he would hardly have heard her. 

Camoys and Margaret Tyson had strolled away to- 
gether round the garden, and Mr. Jerred, having ob- 
served their tender glances before they moved off, and re- 
calling similar scenes at Chantry House, could no longer 
shut his eyes to the fact that they were in love with each 
other. Thus publicity of the evil that had been done — 
or even insistence upon it in a private form — would not 
only put a stain upon an honoured name but occasion 
deep and irreparable grief and humiliation to Miss 
Tyson. 

Mr. Jerred had been struggling to keep this thought 
at bay, but now it was thrusting itself upon him irre- 
sistibly. It gave him a further and more compelling 
reason for hesitancy. His sense of justice was as pure 
as a man's may be, but it was not militant. It had 
tarried in yearning hope against hope that the sinner 
might at the eleventh hour come out, and lessen the 
blow by confession and atonement. It had nothing of 
the egoistic, marauding spirit that goes forth to judge 
and slay without counting the cost to the innocent. 
But now the innocent were inextricably concerned. 

“ That crazy Wivelscote curate," said Mrs. Tewknor 
— ' ‘ what has become of him ? ' ' 

She chattered on about Karnes. 

Margaret and Camoys went to the patched-up little 
gate in the hedge; Margaret opened it, as though to 


96 


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go out on to the common, where children were at play, 
but after holding the latch awhile she let it fall and 
remained on the garden path. 

Gilbert had been asking her again to be his wife, and 
he read consent in her silence : or at least he understood 
from it that her answer was now to be given. He re- 
newed none of his protestations of affection; his lan- 
guage of devotion was brief, and he had said all he 
could say. “You know I love you, Margaret’'; it 
amounted to little more than that; the greater elo- 
quence was in his eyes, his voice, in his every move- 
ment, as he stood by her. 

Margaret lyyson could not have been won by mere 
cleverness of pleading. She would have doubted the 
sincerity of the studied phrase: the direct or halting 
speech of spontaneity was more to her than brilliant 
wit; no man could have whisked her to matrimony on 
an epigram. Gilbert had come into her life by his 
naturalness. He had told her of his love long ago —so 
it seemed to him, yet it was only one bright day in the 
February of this year, as they stood by the low stone 
wall bordering Vallum wood on the Wivelscote road. 
Since then he had several times asked for her answer, 
and now he was grown more urgent, but not in an 
irrational way. They had been drawing nearer to 
each other as the months passed, and he did not doubt 
that he had won her heart. 

She could not have been trifling with him; that was 
the incredible thing. He not only loved her, he hon- 


97 


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cured her; and this was something of a miracle in 
Camoys' consciousness of her sex, for he was not a 
man who regarded women as being all we can know of 
the angelic host on earth. It may be that, had his 
chances of heaven depended on his climbing the 
golden stair under the inspiration of the Perfect Woman 
beckoning to him from the top, he would have had to 
go somewhere else. He honoured Margaret because 
she was so intelligent, so sincere, so good. 

There was nothing objectionable in her intelligence; 
it was very womanly, and her goodness was very 
womanly too. She would have irritated and depressed 
him had she insisted, or appeared to insist, on her 
superior mental gifts; but she was not at all like that. 
She was everything a lady should be in his eyes, 
and he held hereditary views on this point, which 
saved him the trouble of creating a standard of his 
own. 

She had certain peculiarities, but they were all 
lovable, and, he believed, easily curable in the wider 
and more human expanse of married life. Some of 
them were amusing: as, for example, her apparent in- 
difference to money and social position. He could not 
have associated, as she did, with all those ignorant 
villagers: they were outsiders, and he was within the 
pale; it was amazing to him that she should have lost 
nothing in style by being so much among them. He 
could not understand that Margaret had really gained 
thereby in dignity of manner, in beauty of nature and 

7 


98 


The Sacred Cup 

of countenance; this was the marvel-working place of 
her life, and it was beyond Camoys. 

He had been brought up in a home in which money 
was the only manna from above, and poverty the only 
curse here below. But Margaret’s disregard of wealth 
was, after all, a charming weakness, and he promised 
himself, with quite a healthy humour in the thought 
of it, that when they were married he would teach her 
how to value money, and show her the folly of getting 
so little fun out of it. When he induced her to let her- 
self go she would be a tremendous success among the 
best people. He did not think that hitherto she had 
purposely shunned the best people; but she had been 
lukewarm towards them, and hardly quite fair; and all 
that was necessary was for her to be plunged thor- 
oughly into their midst — where, in truth, Camoys 
himself greatly desired to be an admired leader, as his 
forebears had been. It was astonishing to him that 
she had not become dowdy from going about so much 
among cottagers and mixing herself up in their tawdry 
affairs. She ought to be making a sensation in the 
county: that was her proper vocation, and it would 
give her sparkle, and give him his chance of restoring 
to his family name the social glitter it had so long 
lacked. 

‘‘Margaret,” he said, “it seems such a long time 
since February! ” 

She was not at all shy with him, and had no 
prettily evasive reply to give. She smilingly called his 


99 


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attention to a little boy making frantic efforts to catch a 
lazy white butterfly on the common. 

He doesn’t hurt himself in falling,” she said, 
suppose you would call him a true-born English 
sportsman.” 

Camoys remarked that he had the right stuff in him. 
Then he opened the gate, and went out on the other 
side of it. But Margaret remained on the path. 

Yes; she was very sweet and feminine in all her 
ways, but perhaps rather too self-contained, too much 
under the control of her will, as though she would 
pause a long while calmly to consider an important 
issue in all its bearings, as affecting herself and others, 
before taking an irrevocable step. Camoys could not 
discern the future on the broad canvas which was 
visible to her, and it was here that he felt a little twinge 
of insecurity. He could only wait, reminding her, and 
restraining himself. He knew instinctively that all 
would be lost were his manhood to cease to appear to 
her as the equal of her womanhood. She could not 
give her love where she withheld her respect. It 
would be impossible for her to marry a man who was 
not strong, and straight, and perhaps a little authori- 
tative in his manliness. Yet he knew also that it 
would be a fatal mistake to attempt to win her in the 
spirit of the conquering male. 

He came in again on her side of the gate. And it 
was then that she gave him her answer. 

I don’t think, Gilbert,” she said, looking frankly 


lOO 


The Sacred Cup 

in his eyes, that I should be happy if I were to miss 
being your wife/' 

Margaret! " 

Her name was all his eloquence, and for her it was 
enough. And his love was unmixed, so far as he was 
then conscious, with anything base. He took her 
hand, and, “ I wish," he said, " we were n't in sight 
of all those people just now." 

‘‘ 'All those people,' " she answered, showing no 
wish to let go his hand, " are your aunt, my father, 
and Mr. Jerred, who is my dearest friend, next to you 
— my dearest of all." 

They walked, very close together, down the path 
deeper into the garden. Fruit trees grew everywhere, 
but it seemed to be only a beautiful garden of simple 
old flowers. Over one side of the Rectory white roses 
clustered, and all along where the lovers were hiding 
themselves for the rapture of their first kiss, was a 
glory of pansies of royal purple, and celestial blue, and 
buttercup yellow. The phlox took very kindly to Mr. 
Jerred's garden, and swayed in a delirium of colour 
in the gentle breeze; and across by the hedge overlook- 
ing the common was a lovely trelliswork festooned 
with dark blue clematis and seven-sister blush roses. 
As Margaret and Camoys passed behind this, he took 
her in his arms. 

Mrs. Lewknor still chattered on about Karnes. All 
the while she was watching, so far as she could, the 


lOI 


The Sacred Cup 

movements of Margaret and Gilbert. For years, she 
had been praying many heathen prayers for their 
engagement. 

Sir Ardenne Lyson stood by, smiling. He was a re- 
tired State official, tall, fragile, faultlessly dressed, with 
silky white hair, the mouth of a sybarite, and the com- 
plexion of a girl. He had a dove-like voice and an 
agreeably artificial manner, which Mrs. I^ewknor de- 
scribed as the quintessence of distinction. He was 
given to joking about himself, and most of his jokes 
were touched with a whimsical vanity. He was mor- 
bidly careful of his health, and said he had come to 
live in Lamberfield because he had one foot in the 
grave; the other was being providentially kept out so 
that he might show the world how charming senile 
decay could be. He would have been sadly perturbed 
had any one taken his foot in the grave or his senile 
decay for granted. 

Mr. Jerred felt relieved when they were gone. He 
accompanied them out on to the road, and Mrs. I^ewk- 
nor again twirled her eyeglass at his soiled shirt-sleeve 
and the straw on his boot. She said, as the four went 
on, “ Our poor Rector is so common.’’ 

Margaret did not have more words with Mrs. I^ewk- 
nor than were necessary. 

‘‘Surely he is not that,” was all she replied, in a 
tone of the mildest protest. 

Camoys said, “ The Rector is a sound little chap.” 

And then Mrs. Lewknor began to speak regretfully 


102 


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of the pulling down of the quaint old house at Hushing 
Well, some two miles from Lamberfield, ‘‘ where your 
dear Uncle Henry breathed his last.’’ 

He had died by the roadside, but Margaret did not 
correct her. She was not easily drawn into conversa- 
tion about her father’s elder brother. He had acquired 
immense wealth, but she could only think of his life as 
having been a lamentable failure, a long misery to 
himself, if not to others also. She had no idea as to 
how he had made so much money; he had so left his 
affairs as to keep all such knowledge from her; and her 
father either could not or would not tell her. Don’t 
be so foolish,” he had said, ‘‘as to make any inquiry. 
Your uncle became rich in foreign countries; and the 
rest is silence. ’ ’ 

Her mother had told her of his stormy youth in Eng- 
land, but after he went abroad all was a complete blank; 
and he was an old man, soured to his finger-tips, bitter 
through and through, when Margaret first saw him. 
She was alone in the room, a young girl then, and he 
frightened her by crying out, the moment he set eyes 
on her, ‘‘You are your mother’s child, but I don’t 
want to see you! I came to see your mother, and I 
would n’t have crossed the seas had I known she was 
dead! ” He turned to the door, exclaiming, “ I don’t 
want to be bothered with your silly father!” but he 
seemed to be unable to tear himself away, and terrified 
Margaret with his grimaces as he sat down, drew her 
to him with a gentleness that was very strange to her, 


103 


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and questioned her about her mother, where she was 
buried, and how her father had behaved. He went 
away without having seen his brother; and was not 
heard of again until Sir Ardenne Lyson and his 
daughter were established at Chantry House. 

Perhaps it was this incident of Uncle Henry’s return 
which had caused Margaret so distinctly to remember, 
and with curious reflections in later life, the early years 
of her own and her father’s grief. She was then too 
young to understand how little her father was really 
thinking of her dead mother, and how much of himself. 
It was not till long after that she was able to distinguish 
sentimentality from sorrow, and to learn that the living 
may grieve almost without a thought of the departed. 

All that happened immediately before and after her 
mother’s death was indelibly recorded in her memory. 
Her father would not live in the house in London in 
which she died, and took a villa in the Meads district 
of Eastbourne. He would not have anything near him 
that reminded him of his wife, or allow any one to 
speak of her to him. He dismissed all the servants 
who had loved her; would not suffer her portrait to be 
anywhere in the house; and he gave up the newspapers 
and magazines which she had been in the habit of 
reading. 

His elder sister kept house for him for some years: a 
woman of fine nature, whose unmarried state was a 
source of wonderment to Margaret, since she seemed 
to possess all the qualities of an ideal wife and mother. 


104 


The Sacred Cup 

Her death threw Sir Ardenne lyyson into another long 
period of sentimental self- absorption, and he would not 
stay in the house at Eastbourne. He removed to 
Lamberfield, and as Margaret was now old enough to 
take charge of the home, and her youth and robust 
health minimised the chances of another shuddering 
horror of death in it, no other member of the family 
was asked to come. 

Miss Julia Eyson, his younger sister, who was not at 
all well to do until Margaret placed her in comfort, 
offered her services in a supplicating letter written on 
paper with a very deep black border; but Sir Ardenne 
Lyson said almost in panic, “ No, no! your Aunt Julia 
cannot come here; she has a dreadful cough! ** 

So everything went on with graceful decorum at 
Chantry House until old Henry Lyson made his sud- 
den appearance there. The brothers had never got on 
well together, and there was a quarrel, or at any rate 
as much of a quarrel as Ardenne would permit himself 
to be drawn into, during Henry's second visit. He 
called Ardenne a prig, a snob, a lollipop man who had 
just missed being a woman, and declared that he 
would never put his head under his roof again. He 
kept his word. 

But the acid-hearted old bachelor had conceived a 
great liking for Margaret, and he took a small house at 
Hushing Well for no other purpose than to be near her. 
She liked him, too, because of the touching way in 
which he spoke of her mother, though he was now 


105 


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more guarded in what he said; and he did not abuse 
her father. She pitied him for his loneliness, and often 
went to see him, but he would never let her go into his 
house. He was fond of rambling with her through the 
country lanes, or over the lower hills, and of standing 
outside ancient churches and comparing them with the 
temples of pagan Greece and Rome. Margaret some- 
times talked seriously to him about this, out of the un- 
polluted wellspring of her own faith; and once he held 
her arm and said, ‘‘ How I envy you, my dear! 

He told her he had all his life been a woman-hater, 
and he kept up the pretence of it, but she knew that 
he felt relieved when she laughed at him and told him 
he was nothing of the kind. 

‘‘ What would you say if you were to believe it of 
me? '' he asked. 

‘ ‘ I should say that he must be a very inconsistent 
uncle to tire himself out on these long walks with his 
niece.” 

He looked at her occasionally as though he wanted 
to say, ” God bless you! ” but he never said it. He 
was too far gone in misanthropy; the virus of ingrati- 
tude had done its work, and robbed his day of children 
and flowers and his night of stars and fair dreams; he 
would sum up his philosophy of life in ragged quota- 
tions from the poet of pessimism — a scene of fancied 
bliss and heartfelt care, ending in darkness and despair. 
Yet there must have been a ray of something finer left 
in him that made him love this happy girl. 


io6 


The Sacred Cup 

He was absolutely silent regarding his experiences 
abroad. He dressed so shabbily, and the middle-aged 
man and woman who kept house for him complained 
so of his stinginess, that Margaret thought he was 
poor, and suggested to her father that he should make 
him an allowance, in order that he might live more 
comfortably; but the suggestion met with no response. 
He never spoke about money, yet it seemed to Margaret 
that he was thinking of it when he called himself an 
“old prize packet,'’ which he frequently did with a 
kind of snarling laugh of triumph. 

She remembered for ever her last walk with him, and 
his last words to her. It was evening, and as rain was 
coming on she said she must hurry home. 

“ Yes, the clouds are gathering, my dear,” he said. 

He so rarely sighed that she remembered his sigh 
too; it was like something cutting through his heart, 
something trying to escape from a miserable bondage. 

“ Suppose,” he added, “ I should, after all, have the 
golden calf buried in my garden ? ’ ’ 

She had no recollection whatever of the reply she 
made to him. But she felt sure she did not laugh, or 
even smile. 

Men with lanterns found him lying dead that night 
by the roadside, a mile or more from any human habi- 
tation, torrents of rain falling upon him. He left to 
Margaret a great fortune, and not a penny to any one 
else. 


CHAPTKR XIV 


Camoys on the way home told his aunt that he and 
Margaret were going to be married. He was evidently 
very happy, but restrained his elation in giving the 
news; he had not been communicative of late, and per- 
haps he assumed that the announcement would be no 
surprise to her. He certainly assumed that she would 
not stay at Alard after his marriage. She vStopped to 
hold her hand to her heart, fervently thanked Heaven, 
and declared she could scarcely walk for joy. 

“The truth is, my dear, I am older and more feeble 
than I look: I ’ve borne up for your sake — but our 
wearisome trudging days are over now! There will soon 
be plenty of carriages and horses at Alard! Oh, Gil- 
bert, you don’t know how much this means to you! I 
have n’t told you everything — I did n’t want you to 
appear careworn to Margaret — but things have been 
going from bad to worse, and I ’ve had to scheme 
frightfully to keep up appearances. There ’s no harm 
in your knowing the worst now the crisis is at an end. 
We owe thousands of pounds — our credit is gone, at 
least with the best tradespeople — and of course Alard 
was heavily mortgaged before you were born. Your 
107 


io8 


The Sacred Cup 

mother said to me on her death-bed, ‘ Don’t, if you can 
help it, bother Gilbert about money matters’ ; she knew, 
as I have known, how necessary it was that you should 
look your best until you were comfortably settled. 
Nice girls nowadays won’t have anything to do with 
young men who go about pulling a long face. No- 
body can say you ’ve done that. My dear, I can’t 
express my happiness! Only by your making a 
rich marriage could Alard have been saved to the 
family.” 

Camoys’ ignorance of the facts was not so com- 
plete as his aunt imagined, but he merely said, ” I 
don’t think it would have made any difference to 
Margaret.” 

” No; perhaps not. She is most generous and noble, 
not an ordinary girl at all. She does n’t like — I may 
be wrong in supposing she does n’t quite take to me; 
but of course I sha’n’t mind living in London or some 
cheerful watering-place when you are married. There 
can be no doubt that dear Margaret is immensely rich, 
and she is very far from being mercenary. Her uncle 
was the rudest old bachelor I ’ve ever known; he could 
never be civil to any one; but he adored Margaret, and 
left her over a hundred thousand. It was in the papers 
at the time; 1 distinctly remember the heading ‘ A 
Young Heiress,’ and ever since then, Gilbert, how I 
have been working in your interests! ” 

The subject was distasteful to him, and he got 
through a stile, saying he was going to see the dogs. 


109 


The Sacred Cup 

Mrs. Lewkuor said she could get home sooner that 
way, by the east copse, and followed him, still talking. 

‘'I’m sure, my dear, Margaret will make you a good 
wife, apart from everything else. Oh, how lucky you 
are to rescue this beautiful old place out of the hands 
of the spoilers! You must now go into Parliament or 
something of that sort and make a great name for 
yourself. You know the De Camoys used to be titled, 
and I shall dream of its restoration.” 

“ I ’ve no wish to enter Parliament, Aunt Lucy. A 
happy married life at Alard is all I want.” 

” Well, whatever the future may have in store, you 
are making a perfectly ideal match, and you ’ll be the 
envy of all the possible young men in the neighbour- 
hood. You are giving Margaret a famous, historic 
name — her father’s people are of no account, and he 
only got a knighthood when he retired — and you are 
both handsome, and nearly the same age. I don’t 
suppose she has touched a penny of her fortune, and it 
must have accumulated greatly, and of course Sir 
Ardenne will leave her everything. He can’t be poor, 
and he spends very little except on himself. She is an 
only child, and he won’t have anything to do with his 
relatives, because they are all old or unhealthy, with 
weak chests or something, and their constant dying 
makes him shun them. But, Gilbert, how odd it 
seems that you should have proposed to Margaret in 
the Rectory garden! ” 

“ I did n’t propose to her there.” 


I lO 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Oh! But I understood you to sa}^ ” 

I asked her some time ago. She gave me her 
answer to-day.” 

They were going through the copse. 

“It really has surprised me,” said Mrs. Lewknor, 
“ how Margaret, who is so high-minded and decorous, 
could visit the Rectory while Mr. Jerred is scandalising 
us by keeping that unfortunate child there. They say 
he has grown quite attached to it, and I suppose he 
will pinch himself to bring it up and educate it like a 
gentleman. . . . Oh, Gilbert! please don’t walk 

so fast or I shall get tripped up by these sprawling 
branches. No doubt Margaret will want to be married 
by the Rector in our own church. It is wretchedly 
small and plain, but we could brighten it up with 
flowers, and order a proper choir from Muntham. I 
am sure the Bishop would be delighted to officiate if 
you could persuade Margaret to have the wedding 
in the cathedral, and there would be plenty of room 
for the best people. Oh, my dear boy, how solemn 
you are, when you should be brimming over with 
happiness! ” 

Camoys laughed, and said he was all right. He left 
his aunt on the terrace of the large, square, uninterest- 
ing house. All through the copse he had been holding 
in imagination a child in his arms. 

“ Whatever the consequences may be,” he said to 
himself, “ they sha’n’t put the little one away out of 
my sight! ” 


CHAPTER XV 


As Mr. Jerred was passing Floretta Shulmere’s cot- 
tage that evening he heard her coughing in the dark- 
ness of her room; she was resting after another lonely 
day's work, and saving the lamp-oil till her brother 
came home. Her courage, and the sad story of her 
cough, gave fixity to Mr. Jerred's wavering intention 
of taking Arnold Karnes into his confidence. 

The next day, as he was setting out for Wivelscote, 
he met Sir Ardenne Tyson, who, with an air of sub- 
dued self-pity, told him of Margaret's engagement to 
Camoys. 

‘‘You will miss her very much." 

‘‘ No doubt," said Sir Ardenne Tyson. “It is an 
old theory of mine, however, that nothing is so bad as 
it seems." 

He smiled impersonall}^, drew a finger gracefully 
down his cheek, and turned by a side gate into his 
grounds. 

Mr. Jerred went on to Wivelscote. But now he was 
telling himself that he might as well have stayed in 
Tamberfield. His resolve to submit everything to Ar- 
nold had been broken down by the news Sir Ardenne 


III 


I 12 


The Sacred Cup 

lyyson had just given him. He could go through the 
formality of asking his advice regarding the Bishop's 
suggestion, but he could do very little more than that. 
He knew that Arnold’s feelings towards Miss I^yson 
had gone beyond mere respect, and it would therefore 
be unseemly, and unfair to Camoys, to Miss I^yson, and 
to Arnold himself, to tell him of lyOttie’s letter to Miss 
Shulmere. It would certainly be ungenerous and cruel 
to acquaint him with this fact, and then invite his 
counsel in the perplexity. Mr. Jerred could not do it; 
the situation was already painful enough, and he 
would not aggravate it by subjecting Arnold to the or- 
deal of possessing so deadly a weapon against his rival. 
He did not believe his friend would use it unworthily, 
but the knowledge of it could not fail to add poignancy 
to his final disappointment. 

Mr. Jerred had not hitherto frankly faced the ques- 
tion, Would the revelation of Camoys’ s guilt deter 
Miss lyyson from marrying him?” He faced it now, 
and the answer of his heart was, I don’t think it 
would.” 

But this did not end the difficulty. The child could 
not be put on one side, and the grass was not yet green 
on its mother’s grave. 

” I must at any rate be very careful,” Mr. Jerred 
thought as he drew near to Wivelscote, “ in what I say 
to Arnold. It would be so unkind to put him in a 
worse dilemma than I am in myself. And yet he is 
very ready and resourceful, and when one imagines 


113 


The Sacred Cup 

everything is involved, he seems to find his way out 
by laughing at himself, or at me/^ 

It was Arnold Karnes who said one day that there 
were three interesting people in the grounds of Chantry 
House. One was a young woman — she would be 
thrown out of perspective if he were to call her a young 
lady; she combined goodness with perfect sanity. 

Rare, rare combination, said Karnes, ‘‘ that of the 
sound Christian heart and the strong intelligence.” 
Another was the Rector of a starvation benefice, which 
he never would have got at all if it had been worth 
fighting for. The third was a curate who would go on 
wondering what was the matter with him even were he 
to get the fattest living in the diocese. 

It was also Karnes who said (but this only for Miss 
Tyson’s ear): There have always been finer and 

higher spirits among the laity than among the clergy. 
There are exceptions. St. Francis of Assisi sang the 
Gospel at mass. James Jerred of Tamberfield is a priest. 
What,” he asked, ‘‘ do the professionals think of Mr. 
Jerred ? I know what the poor, and the ignorant, and 
the sufferers think of him ! ’ ’ 

Karnes lodged in one of those picturesque old cot- 
tages which are the admiration of the artist and the de- 
spair of the sanitarian. In summer it looked like a 
tumbled mass of roses, creepers, and ivy, the roof and 
chimneys even being obscured, while the tiny diamond- 
paned windows were visible from a distance only when 

the sun was shining on them. There was a porch 
8 


1 14 The Sacred Cup 

which in June was hidden by cascades of roses. 
Strangers paused to exclaim, ‘‘ Oh, how lovely! ’’ but 
Arnold Karnes preferred fresh air to aesthetic sentiment 
based on semi-suffocation. 

His landlady, a motherly old soul, told with groans 
and smiles of his first day and night in her house. He 
did not mind the rooms being small, but he insisted on 
having the winds of heaven for his companions. When 
he found his bedroom window would not open, he sat 
down with the air of one lost on a desert island, stared 
at the old lady, and said mournfully, ‘‘ Can such things 
be?’^ 

No, sir,’’ she replied, it was made so.^’ 

“ There was once a human being in the universe,’' 
said Karnes, ‘ ‘ who made a window not meant to open 
— and you still live to tell the tale! ” 

A healthier room, sir, there never was, and clean 
you can see for yourself. I slep’ in it myself thirty 
year, never a night out till father was took, and never 
a doctor in the house excep’ what ’s natural when 
children are sent.” 

Oh, yes; it is beautifully sweet and clean,” Karnes 
granted. But the air from the hills, you know, goes 
one better.” 

He coaxed her into promising that a carpenter should 
perform an operation on the window in the morning; 
meanwhile the extraordinary man armed himself with 
a fire-iron and coolly broke two of the panes. Not a 
wink,” said his landlady, ''did I sleep that night; 


The Sacred Cup 115 

every minute I thought to jump out of my skin from 
him rammin’ the poker through the others.” She 
grew to love Mr. Karnes as her own son, discovering 
by degrees his heart of gold, which is the only way, 
after spiritual insight, that a heart of gold in an un- 
polished casket can be discovered. 

Mr. Jerred had found the gem at a glance; and Mar- 
garet Lyson discovered it during her first conversation 
with Arnold at Lamberfield, when he was by no means 
too polite to her. She had it out with him there and 
then. 

You have heard that I am rich,” she said, and 
paused, looking straight into his piercing black eyes. 
” Does it matter? ” she asked. 

‘‘ It does n't in your case,” he answered; and they 
never again misunderstood each other, except in the 
greatest thing. But it is in the greatest, where their 
own happiness is most deeply concerned, that fine 
souls so easily miss their way. 

The carpenter was obliged to put in a new window, 
and Karnes paid the bill, but Mrs. Stavordale, who 
lived in a mansion which had been specially built for 
her ” with all the most modern improvements,” scorn- 
fully declared that ” the oldest and loveliest cottage 
for miles round has been utterly ruined.” 

Karnes would not have been long at Wivelscote but 
for the peculiar circumstances which had led to his 
coming there. It was a town-village, socially much 
superior to Tamberfield, many of the residents being 


ii6 The Sacred Cup 

well to do, but the general tone of the place was politely 
frivolous. Everybody went to church, but public wor- 
ship was hardly more than an item in the weekly pro- 
gramme of varieties which kept one from getting bored; 
and in the scheme of creation, religion was almost as 
important as afternoon tea. 

The vicar, Mr. Lurgas, a well-meaning elderly "gen- 
tleman of feeble character, who knew his duty and 
longed for some one else to be raised up to do it, had 
no influence, and things had been allowed to drift help- 
lessly, until, as he plaintively wrote to a friend, ‘‘ I feel 
I ought to be called the Vicar of Laodicea”; and 
again, “ I am like a conscientious but incompetent 
physician who is ready to fall on his knees and weep 
for his dead and dying patients. ’ ' The friend suggested 
'^a strong, fearless, sublimely reckless curate,’' and 
recommended Arnold Karnes. 

The poor vicar sat in a kind of stupor during his 
new curate’s first sermon, and the other curate, a robust 
young sportsman of blameless decorum, felt that an 
earthquake was occurring in Wivelscote. 

“ I ’vebeen thinking over what I should say to you,” 
Karnes began, ‘‘ but I ’ve not looked up a text. That 
does n’t matter; almost anything will do. I want to 
ask myself and make you ask yourselves whether in 
the test of our Lord’s commands we Christian people 
are n’t a gang of humbugs. We have organised our- 
selves as such, but a child can see through us! ” 

He opened the Bible. ” This will do for a text. 


117 


The Sacred Cup 

‘ Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' 
These words have made me laugh, and they have made 
me cry. Tong ago I preached a sermon on them, and 
all the while I was preaching it I was calling myself 
an impostor. It is pretty much the same now, but that 
does n't give a single one of you the smallest loophole 
of escape. God says the meek shall inherit the earth, 
and each one of you has to ask. What do I think of the 
meek ? What do we do with the meek — in our kitch- 
ens, in our fields, in our workshops? We think they 
are great fools, fit only for enslavement to our temporal 
needs. In our hearts we may have some doubt, but 
there is such a delicious, subtle devilishness in having 
our boots blacked by the saints! Now and then some- 
thing happens, and for a moment we are awed to see 
their blood on our hands. Well — never mind I — we can 
always wash it off before the great god Material Effi- 
ciency. Have you ever considered in how many of the 
enterprises of Christian people to-day Christ would be 
regarded as ‘efficient'? Now don't be cowards and 
run away from that thought. Stick to it! If I could 
work magic I would hammer it into your hearts and 
brains so that you should never get it out again." 

Karnes threw his gaunt figure over the front of the 
pulpit, and held his right arm straight down, a hymn- 
book in his hand as though he were going to drop it 
on to the floor. Then he stood upright, his dark eager 
face softening for a tender appeal. 

"And yet the meek do inherit the earth, and the 


ii8 The Sacred Cup 

greatest sermon in the world is five minutes^ contrite 
silence in their presence. Their inheritance is our 
condemnation.’’ 

The old vicar was entreated to dismiss the new 
curate, but after recovering from the shock of Karnes’s 
first sermon, he stood firm; another had put his hand 
to the plough, and he would at least stand by him. 

So he wrote to his friend: “ Thank you again, dear 

E , a hundred times, for sending me so sterling a 

fellow. We frequently have him at the vicarage, and 
my wife says she loves him. We had to get used to his 
eccentricities, but that was easy, for they are all on the 
surface. We have never known any one to laugh so 
heartily, and yet at times he is so melancholy one 
would almost suppose he had lost all hope. My wife 
thinks he must have been disappointed in love, but I 
tell her if you know anything it would not be fair for 
you to satisfy her curiosity. One or two of our people 
pretend to think he is crazy, and I am sorry to say that 
the boycott, that singular but I fear favourite weapon 
among Christians, has been applied to him by a few. 
But he is not disturbed by this, and I rejoice that his 
worth is being more and more appreciated, especially 
by the poor. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XVI 


Kambs was out when the Rector of Lamberfield 
reached his lodgings. His landlady said she expected 
him every minute, and Mr. Jerred went into the simply 
furnished little sitting-room to await his return. He 
was firmly resolved not to speak of Lottie's letter; he 
had, however, no definite scheme of evasion, and 
would trust to the kindly inspiration of the moment to 
find words that should give Arnold no pain. 

He had not long to wait. Karnes, although he had 
been for a ten miles’ walk, entered the cottage impetu- 
ously, exclaimed when he saw Mr. Jerred, ‘‘ Hullo, 
Jim! ” and then called along the passage, Mrs. Mar- 
ley, the two best parsons in the Church of England are 
famishing for a cup of tea! ” Being a head taller than 
Mr. Jerred, he had to stoop to get into the sitting-room. 
He began at once to fill a pipe, talking rapidly the 
while, and to Mr. Jerred’s question, “ What have you 
been doing with yourself all this time, Arnold?” he 
replied, ” T ’ve been wondering how much farther it is 
from Lamberfield to Wivelscote than from Wivelscote 
to Lamberfield.” Then said Mr. Jerred, ” Well, I 
wish you ’d look in the glass; you could n’t possibly 
119 


120 


The Sacred Cup 

have shaved this morning; and Karnes confessed he 
was feeling rather disreputable. 

‘‘ I want to talk, Jim! 

‘‘ I have heard you do it, Arnold.** 

Oh for a pulpit with a big sounding-board, and a 
congregation of bishops! ** 

‘‘The idea is rather perspiring,** said Mr. Jerred. 
“ By the way, it reminds me — or I should say — I have 
been in the episcopal presence m3^self since I last saw 
you.’* 

“ Have you been offered a prebendal stall ? ’* 

“There is not one vacant, is there? Besides, I 
should scarcely fill it with credit to the Dean and 
Chapter. Now you would be at least an ornament in 
the cathedral — if you could learn to keep still. I 
might get lost in one of those imposing processions. 
No, the Bishop has not made me a dignitary. I am 
afraid I am in his black books.** 

Mr. Jerred explained the prelate’s suggestion, and 
added, “ He does not appear to understand the position 
as fully as one could wish.** 

“ Of course you can’t give in to him,** said Karnes 
emphatically. “ He has the official mind, and when 
the official mind is ecclesiastical it is very much like the 
official mind when it is anything else. It means the 
unimaginative perception of facts, and along that arid 
line the angels are continually weeping. It takes a 
fact and says, ‘ This is not denied; it is very unusual; 
the majority will be offended,* and then ** 


I2I 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ But don’t we owe some consideration to the ma- 
jority, Arnold?” 

In Christian ideals the majority is always wrong, 
and we owe it no consideration! In any event, Lam- 
berfield is your majority, and what you ’ve done has 
given no offence there.” 

‘‘ That is because the people know me.” 

‘‘ Quite so; you meet them with the unanswerable 
argument of personality. They know that your bring- 
ing the poor girl home was a Christian act; they know 
that your keeping the child is a Christian act; they 
know that you have nothing to gain by it, and every- 
thing to lose. What would they have thought of you 
if you had callously stood by and done nothing ? They 
have n’t the official mind; I have inflicted some of my 
worst sermons on them and know how simple they are. 
Had you deserted Tottie Ollett in her extremity your 
influence in Lamberfield would have been at an end — 
except ofiicially, and that ’s not the sort of influence 
you ’d care to have. Your position, Jim, is impreg- 
nable from the Christian standpoint. You have loved 
‘ the least of these.’ I preached from that text the 
other Sunday, and the vicar said, ‘ Were you thinking 
of Mr. Jerred?’ ‘I was making him,’ I answered, 
‘ blow his own trumpet through me.’ You ’ve done 
this thing, Jim, and you can’t go back.” 

I don’t wish to, Arnold. But if the Bishop should 
insist on the child’s removal, could I hold out against 
him?” 


122 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ Certainly! This is not a question of discipline, 
but of conscience. It is purely a personal question. 
He could set his chancellor on to you for putting a 
crucifix up in your church, but you don’t need a faculty 
to take a child into your house.” 

There are undercurrents — ” Mr. Jerred hesitated. 

“Yes; there ’s the ruffian of a father.” 

“ I should say, other points may arise, and when the 
Bishop makes a request he expects to be obeyed.” 

“ He has expressed an opinion. Your conscience 
expresses another. Here ’s the tea. Thank you, Mrs. 
Marley . Quince j am ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, sir. The last pot.” 

“ Oh, what stories women tell about jam! I ’ve had 
several last pots of all the sorts in this house. Come 
on, Jerred; haul up your chair. Look at those eggs! 
And marmalade, too. How long has the tea been 
made, Mrs. Marley?” 

“ This very minute, sir.” 

“ Then it ’s ready to pour out. When a woman 
says the tea has been made this very minute that means 
five minutes at least.” 

Karnes talked incessantly. He had the face and fig- 
ure of an ascetic, but he was not markedly of the cleri- 
cal type, and looked as much like a soldier from the 
wars as a priest from the shrine. His friends believed 
he would have received preferment but for the farcical 
touch in his nature. It was due to self-depreciation; 
people who know their own value and intend to get on 


123 


The Sacred Cup 

in life avoid extravagance. His eyes were very ex- 
pressive ; Mr. Jerred had once spoken of this, and 
Karnes replied, “ I can’t live up to them, and shall 
have to screw them out of shape with a monocle in 
self-defence.” 

” So you ’ve not heard from the Bishop since that 
prostrating interview ? ” 

‘‘ No. But I have received some documents relating 
to institutions.” 

” Is n’t it — I suppose,” said Karnes, it would n’t 
comfort you if I were to curse and swear? ” 

” Not at all, Arnold. We always, you know, regret 
a lapse from charity. You have told me how disor- 
ganised you feel w^henever you allow yourself to be 
resentful.” 

“Ah, well! — But, my dear little Nunc Dimittis 
man, it ’s plain from what you ’ve said, and plainer 
from what you have n’t said, that you ’ve had a 
bad knock on the head from some quarter. Do try 
this quince; it ’s mostly apples — she’s an amiable 
old pretender. I ’ve told you all along you were 
bound soon or late to get into hot water over this 
business. I never dreamed that an episcopal rod 
was in pickle; I fancied the trouble would somehow 
come from the father.” 

“ Yes — but why should you — I did n’t think when I 
brought Dottie home there could be any objection ” 

“ O simple Rector! You ’ve been treating a moral 
difficulty in a moral way, and that ’s the surest road to 


124 


The Sacred Cup 

misunderstanding. It bewilders the conventionalists; 
it is n’t what they would do themselves, and they ’ll 
pay you out for going over their heads by giving you 
a spiteful scratch. Now had you treated this difficulty 
in a flippant spirit, with a gay irresponsibility, or with- 
out any moral sense at all, you ’d have been perfectly 
safe. Yes; perfectly safe — and perfectly damned. You 
could n’t; so there ’s no more to be said. Just you tell 
the Bishop that, and give him his quietus.” 

Mr. Jerred smiled and shook his head. It must be 
very exhilarating to have your spirited method of deal- 
ing with the episcopate.” He mused awhile, the tips 
of his fingers on the table, his gaze apparently on 
Karnes’s plate. “ I should so like to be quite frank 
with you, Arnold.” 

” You always are, Jim.” 

‘‘ No, no — not in this matter. It would not be right 
for me to tell you everything.” 

“You might as well, and get it off* your mind. 
You ’ll never be able to keep it back from me. Has 
anything, besides the Bishop’s intervention, occurred 
to make you think it may be necessary to give the 
child up?” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Jerred replied, “ something very terrible 
has occurred. And then, immediately after, as if to 
prevent me from — oh! I came resolving not to break 
the unhappy news to you.” 

“ Well, but you must n’t forget that I am little 
David’s godfather. That gives him in the peculiar 


125 


The Sacred Cup 

circumstances rather a special claim upon me. I doubt 
if it would be possible for me to stand on one side 
and see him engulfed in some gigantic institution. I 
should want to drag him out of that chaos, and adopt 
him myself.” 

Arnold! ” 

‘‘I mean what I say, Jim. He is far better with 
you, but I don’t want to see him unclaimed as well as 
nameless.” 

Mr. Jerred pushed back his chair a few inches and 
glanced towards the window. 

‘ ‘ How you reproach me, Arnold, for my weakness 
and indecision ! ’ ’ 

‘‘ No, no; I ’m in the dark, and could n’t do that. I 
have no notion as to what may have arisen in the 
meantime, but nothing could make me doubt your un- 
selfishness of motive.” Karnes also pushed his chair a 
little way from the table, and leaned back in it. ”I ’ve 
often made myself look ridiculous in your eyes, Jim, 
and now I ’m going to make you say I ought to be 
kicked. It will seem an outrageous thing to you. I 
am going to ask Miss Lyson to marry me.” 

Mr. Jerred stood up. 

“You are so fond of fresh air, Arnold, but I think 
that window must be shut.” He gazed at it a mo- 
ment, and then sat down again. “No; I see it is 
open. It must have been the bird-cage that deceived 
me. . . . Have you read the latest manifesto on 

the Athanasian Creed ? They are at it again.” 


126 The Sacred Cup 

Karnes had not stirred; this motionless posture was 
very unusual to him in conversation. 

“ I shall not ask you whether you think I have any 
chance. I have crowned my absurdity, and can go 
no further. It has given you a shock, I see. All the 
same, I am going to put it to her — simply because I 
must.’’ 

The heart hungers for the festival of human love, 
and a man may stifle its hunger with the Lenten fare 
of stern duty, or with the sense of his own unworthi- 
ness, but there will come a time when not only his 
heart but his whole being suffers from famine, and he 
must cry out. 

‘ ‘ Is this the reason of your long absence from Lam- 
berfield, Arnold?’’ 

“ Not altogether. ‘ We have heard a voice trem- 
bling, of fear, and not of peace. ’ The last time I was 
at Chantry House — you know how I ’ve imposed on 
her kindness to me — I was on the point of speaking to 
her, but Mrs. Lewknor interrupted us. That old par- 
rot loathes me. If I don’t ask her to be my wife I 
shall also loathe myself for a coward to the end of my 
days. I don’t want to do that; I ’m sour and arrogant 
enough as it is, and it might make me madder than 
people already say I am. I ’ve been laying a fine 
variety of flattering unctions to my soul, but only one 
of them has had any enduring solace. I don’t think 
Miss Lyson would object to being a parson’s wife. She 
likes to be among the poor; life has a serious meaning 


127 


The Sacred Cup 

for her. The big doubt I must settle one way or an- 
other is — am I that parson ? ’’ 

‘‘I am sure/' said Mr. Jerred, she respects and 
admires you very much." 

‘‘ But there 's my fatal grotesque side! She sees it; 
I 've seen the startled look in her eyes. It repels her 
as a thing irreconcilable with the solemnity of my 
calling." 

But she sees more than that in you. And she is 
so broad-minded and tolerant. She finds excuses for 
my faults and peculiarities, and if she can do that in 
one who is several years your senior, and ought there- 
fore to be always very sedate and strict with himself, 
surely in your case she will take a still kindlier view." 

Mr. Jerred rested his elbow on the arm of his chair 
and held his hand to his face. He had come out of 
the deeps in Tamberfield only to find himself in a 
deeper depth in Wivelscote. Confidence had been 
reposed in him by his dearest friend, and he was so 
circumstanced that instead of being able to offer con- 
solation and help he was driven into a position which 
made his very friendship seem false. He knew that 
Arnold could bear disappointment, but he feared to 
utter Camoys' name lest it should lead to the further 
disclosure which he dreaded. Yet how could he hold 
his tongue, and subject Arnold to the mortification of 
certain refusal? Miss Tyson, in telling him that she 
could not be his wife, would be very sympathetic and 
gracious. But that was not enough; here was an 


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imperative call upon friendship, and a deaf ear could 
not be turned to it. 

‘‘Young ladies,’’ he said lamely, “change their 
minds sometimes, even after — when they are highly 
intelligent, like Miss lyyson.” 

“ She is not capricious,” said Karnes. “ She would 
marry a labourer if she loved him.” 

“ Oh, I ’m not saying she is changeable — in the or- 
dinary sense. Oh, no; not at all. But — one has read 
of such things in books — it appears to happen now and 
then that marriages don’t always take place when they 
are — when people think they will. Don’t you think 
they don’t, Arnold?” 

“ I don’t think you don’t know you ’re getting 
muddled. What,” Karnes asked bluntly, “are you 
driving at? ” 

“ Well, I met Sir Ardenne Lyson to-day as I was 
passing Chantry House, and he said — have you no- 
ticed his odd manner of stroking his finger down his 
cheek and then putting it to his lips? ” 

“ As if he were tasting himself,” said Karnes. “ I 
fancy he is sweeter to himself than all the honey of the 
comb. But why are you dragging in Sir Ardenne 
Dyson by the skin of his cheek ? Det ’s have it, Jim.” 

“ I had a brief conversation with him. He seemed 
to be a little upset. He spoke about his daughter and 
Mr. Camoys.” 

Karnes squeezed his chin between his thumb and 
first finger. He got up, calmly selected another pipe 


129 


The Sacred Cup 

from what he called his No. i collection,’’ and said, 
“ So he told you they are engaged to be married.” 

The words had no interrogative note; and Mr. Jerred 
had nothing to say. 

Karnes, having attuned his life to service or to sacri- 
fice, was not lacking in self-control. He filled the 
pipe with strong tobacco and lighted it. 

“ I had a chat with Margesson a day or two since. 
He keeps up his wanderings. He must; he ’ll get 
moody if he does n’t, bearing that skulking black- 
guard’s disgrace. He said a fine thing to me. ‘ I ’ve 
grown to care for Tottie Ollett more than I did when 
she was alive.’ I put it to him straight, ‘ Would you 
have married her after Mr. Jerred brought her home? ’ 
and he said, ‘ No, not then, but I would now.’ Jim, 
was there ever such convincing proof of innocence? 
And yet we have this genuine young fellow turned 
adrift into the wilderness tarred with another’s infamy! 
It was on the heights south of Alard park that we 
ran upon each other. A pair of us, both hunting for 
the crumb of comfort that is always lying at the edge of 
the world. When I meet him now — Ah well! we must 
never give up the pursuit of the Something Beyond.” 

Karnes, suddenly putting away his pipe, turned to 
Mr. Jerred. 

‘‘Jim, never a word, dear old chap, about that again. 
You can’t break my yoke; so let it be where it is. And 
one is n’t going to lose one’s head and grovel in the 

mire because one has lifted one’s eyes to a star. , . , 
9 


130 


The Sacred Cup 

By the way, Margesson mentioned he had been to your 
early celebration last Sunday, and this set me wonder- 
ing how you would act if a situation that used to be 
common enough were to arise. Supposing Margesson 
were guilty after all, and you were to know of his 
guilt, and he were to present himself at the altar — 
what would you do ? '* 

‘‘ But he is not guilty,” said Mr. Jerred. 

‘‘No; I am merely assuming a case. I^et us then 
suppose it of some one else. He has n’t confessed; he 
has n’t given any sign of repentance; he is living a 
double life, and he tries to bolster up his hypocrisy by 
coming to Holy Communion. I know what I should 
do. . . . Jim! you ’ve discovered the father of 

I^ottie’s child ? ” 

“Yes, Arnold — but I can’t tell you; I must not tell 
you!” 

Karnes looked at him a moment in silence. Then 
he went to the door, which was slightly open, and shut 
it. He came back to Mr. Jerred, standing now be- 
hind his chair. 

“ After what I have said about Miss Tyson there is 
only one man whose name you would n’t care to give 
me. I can be trusted even in this, Jim — I can guess it 
. . . Gilbert Camoys ? ” 

“Yes, Arnold. I had hoped to keep it from you. 
I thought it unfair that you should be brought in to 
share my responsibility. But I can see now that it 
must all come out.’' 


The Sacred Cup 13 1 

Mr. Jerred took Lottie Ollett's letter from his pocket. 
‘‘You used words a little while ago that impressed 
me very much. ‘We have heard a voice trembling, of 
fear, and not of peace.’ ” 

“ I ’ve been reading the chapter recently,” said 
Karnes, “ and there are other words in it that seem to 
be meant for you — ‘ Therefore fear thou not, O my 
servant Jacob.’ ” 

‘‘ This pitiful letter,” said Mr. Jerred, looking at it 
with tears, ‘‘ was intended to make peace, but it is 
bringing war. There is no one else, Arnold, of all my 
friends, to whom I would show it except you.” He 
held it up. “Please stay where you are while you are 
reading it. Poor Lottie, poor Lottie! . . .” Mr. 

Jerred covered his face with his hands. 

Karnes returned the letter without a word. He 
went to the window, and stood there a long while look- 
ing out upon the village, but all was a blur to him. 
He waited till Mr. Jerred rose, and then helped him on 
with his cloak. 

“ I wish you ’d get a new one, Jim; I agree with 
Mrs. Verdley that this old thing really is n’t good 
enough for the Rector of Lamberfield. I ’ll walk home 
with you. . . . What was that you were saying 

about the Quicunque vultf ” 


CHAPTER XVII 


MargarkI' Tyson, during the weeks before her 
marriage, was not so happy as her friends supposed her 
to be. For this Gilbert Camoys was not to blame. 
Were she to learn of the secret which was now held by 
Mr. Jerred, Arnold Karnes, and Floretta Shulmere — a 
secret which, in Mr. Jerred's troubled musings on it, 
was thus ‘‘spreading’' — the texture of her unhappiness 
would be very different; but she did not regret having 
promised to be Gilbert’s wife, and she had no anxiety 
about the future. 

She saw him every day, and was very sure of her 
love for him, very sure of his love for her. He was not 
indeed the perfect knight of her girlish dreams, but 
she had come to the age when perfection ceases to be a 
practical quest; the vision may remain, a pleasure of 
the imagination for uplifting moments, but Margaret 
had too much common-sense to waste herself in idle 
expectation of meeting the man who should be her 
ideal companion through life. She wished to be mar- 
ried, and Gilbert was the manliest man she had ever 
known. 

She had formerly been inclined to criticise his de- 
132 


133 


The Sacred Cup 

fects, his limitations, his ordinariness and lack of ideas, 
and above all his unquestioning acceptance of the con- 
ventional rule as a kind of heavenly revelation. But 
she had always liked and respected him; and now lie 
attracted her physically, spoke to her heart, and that 
was the last argument. She could give herself to him 
with the proud feeling that her womanhood would be 
meeting its fit mate. She would have married no man 
under any other condition. 

Arnold Karnes had strongly impressed himself on the 
intellectual side of her nature, but his virility was de- 
ficient in sobriety, and after all Margaret was a prudent- 
minded young woman. She admired Karnes in some 
ways more than she admired Camoys. There was, 
however, a fatal touch of uncertainty in his character 
which restricted her admiration to the mental sphere, 
and he was made the less indispensable to her from the 
fact that she saw every day his best qualities in Mr. 
Jerred, more beautifully, because more sanely expressed. 
She could have said without any feeling of shame that 
she loved Mr. Jerred, but her love for him was not at 
all the same thing as her love for the man she was go- 
ing to marry; nor were her thoughts of him quite the 
same as her thoughts of the curate of Wivelscote. It 
was not only the disparity in their years which had 
prevented her from thinking of Mr. Jerred as a possible 
husband. She could not have entered into a union 
based on spiritual afiinity alone. 

She was really passing on to the great happiness and 


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The Sacred Cup 

the great sorrow of her life under the same elemental 
impulse which had led to lyOttie Ollett's calamity and 
death. And the young man they both loved, loved 
them both, and he loved, too, the child of the dead 
girl-mother. So that Margaret could not yet see Gil- 
bert as he was, or as Mr. Jerred saw him. To her, he 
was absolutely honest, as clean in heart and mind as a 
man may be. To Mr. Jerred, he presented the pro- 
founder spectacle of an ordinary man fated to suffer in 
a manner beyond his insensitive perception of justice. 

Margaret’s unhappiness was due to her father’s 
singular mood, which left her in doubt as to whether 
he approved of her marriage or was opposed to it. 

A curiously subtle estrangement had grown up be- 
tween them. Sir Ardenne Tyson seldom referred to 
the event which was presently to separate him from his 
daughter, and never quite seriously. Occasionally an 
incident would occur to compel him to speak, and then 
his remarks, though on the surface humorous, were 
tinged with an animosity so exquisitely pointed that no 
one but his daughter perceived it. He refrained from 
asking her if the date had been decided upon, and took 
no interest in the wedding preparations. 

''You will know what to do,” he would say with a 
smile of wintry kindness. ''If not, there is Mrs. Tewk- 
nor, who possesses the universal mind in these matters. 
But I beg you not to inflict her upon me.” 

He would not come to close quarters with Margaret 
about the impending change. Once, having reminded 


135 


The Sacred Cup 

him that when she went to Alard she would still be 
very near to him, his reply, so it seemed to her at the 
moment, was all that it could be in delicacy and con- 
sideration, but she was unable afterwards to remember 
what he had said. His vagueness would not have 
grieved her so much could she have felt convinced that 
it arose entirely from his regret at losing her. But it 
implied something else, something not so pleasant to 
contemplate. One day Camoys gave his interpretation 
of it. 

‘‘ Your father hates me, Margaret. 

'‘Oh, no, Gilbert; I don’t think father hates any one. 
He says hatred is vulgar.” 

"He dislikes me, then. I don’t care for myself; it ’s 
of no consequence if you don’t bother. He has scarcely 
spoken to me since your engagement.” 

" How forgetful you must be, Gilbert! You had a 
long conversation with him yesterday.” 

Camoys laughed. " Upon my word it had escaped 
my memory. What did he talk about ? ” 

" I was not there.” 

" I can’t remember a single thing he said! He kept 
me at arm’s length all the while, and I have a notion 
he was having a lark with me. Does he sneer ? ” 

"Oh, no.” 

" He would n’t,” said Camoys dubiously. " He is 
very polite, and cultured, and all that. But I don’t 
seem to hit it with him exactly in his particular style.” 

It was at this period that Margaret began to realise 


136 The Sacred Cup 

how little her father had been to her, how unimportant 
a place he had occupied in her life, how small had 
been his influence over her — for good or ill, — how re- 
fined, almost to invisibility, was his poise of selfishness. 

Six weeks after her engagement she was still trying 
to fathom his feelings on the subject, but his airy so- 
phistication defeated her at every turn. She was glad 
when the weather grew warmer, so that she could be 
with Gilbert a long while every day in the lovely old 
grounds of Chantry House. All her scrutiny of him 
had ended; she accepted him just as he was, and they 
were very happy together. 

Sir Ardenne Lyson carefully avoided them. If he 
should come upon them accidentally he would stand 
awhile shading his eyes with his hand, as if he were 
looking at the hills, and then slowly retire. If they 
should be so close to him that he was obliged to speak, 
he would say the treacherous winds still lingered, or 
murmur some phrase more fanciful, such as ‘‘ The 
swallows have come, but they never grow old, and 
they don’t share my distrust of the English climate.” 
So he would shut himself up in the sunniest room in 
the house, reading books in beautiful bindings, and 
ringing every few minutes for the servants to attend to 
the fire, or arrange the window-blinds, or do some 
other trifling service. 

It was not that he had fallen into the pathetic melan- 
choly of old age that feels deserted in a long twilight. 
He was too shallow for sorrow, and too self-complacent 


137 


The Sacred Cup 

for bitterness. He did not accuse bis daughter of in- 
gratitude, but he did try, after the manner of the 
querulous amateur philosopher, to make the gods his 
accomplices in accusing her of giving him pain. He 
made no attempt to submit his grievance against her 
to reason, or even to definition; he was her father, and 
she was leaving him. He was the most interesting 
and most highly cultured man he knew, and his own 
daughter had ceased to appreciate him, preferring a 
commonplace young man solely on account of his good 
looks. Fathers who think like this find their eventide 
loveless as well as long. 

It was only Mrs. Fewknor who could disturb his 
gracefully malicious pose. She so annoyed him with 
her ''indecent impertinence of sympathy’* that he 
came near to commanding Margaret to keep the chat- 
tering woman from him. 

" You know I have never had a headache in my life, 
but she has brought me to the verge of one several 
times of late. I was ' poor Sir Ardenne ’ to her yester- 
day. It is intolerable. She has had the rudeness to 
inquire what I am going to do with Chantry House 
after your — I am not aware that anything needs to be 
done to Chantry House. If the roof lets in the rain, 
it will be seen to; and if the house is to be sold, that 
doubtless will be attended to also. It is my affair, and 
has nothing to do with your future husband’s family. 
She will be inquiring next whether I am going to live 
in Bath, or Tunbridge Wells, or Folkestone.” 


138 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ I hope, father/' Margaret said gently, you don't 
intend to give up Chantry House ? " 

‘‘ And now,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ you are taking a leaf 
out of Mrs. Lewknor's book! You will soon have a 
home of your own, Margaret, and I assume that your 
duties will be sufficient without your concerning your- 
self in my small affairs.” 

Margaret often crossed the village to the Rectory as 
a relief from her father's paltriness. Mr. Jerred was 
kinder to her than ever; more gentle and considerate in 
speech and manner. She thought, ” He seems never 
to be able to forget for a single moment that I am en- 
gaged,” and she was drawn closer to him by his still 
greater regard for her. Yet at times, having no 
suspicion of the anxious grief which had made her al- 
most a tragic figure in his eyes, she was a little amused, 
and it may be a little flattered, too, by the awe in his 
demeanour towards her. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

Gii^bKRT sometimes went with her to the Rectory, 
but never at his own suggestion, and he always seemed 
reluctant to go. This surprised Margaret the more as 
Mrs. Verdley had told her of his frequent visits alone, 
generally when the Rector was absent, and how fond 
he was of holding the child in his arms. 

“I ’ve never known a young gentleman fonder of 
children. He puts its little hand in his mouth and 
makes it smile as if it was tickled. I tell him when he 
gets a baby of his own he ’ll want to eat it from love.” 

Margaret noticed that he seldom had anything to say 
to Mr. Jerred when she was present, although he an- 
swered promptly and brightly should the Rector make 
a remark to him. It seemed to her that a constraint 
was upon them, each towards the other. It was not 
unlike the estrangement which existed between Mar- 
garet and her father, but the motive underlying it must 
have been very different. It might be nothing more 
than her fancy. Yet, on this particular morning, as 
the three strolled in the Rectory garden, Gilbert and 
Mr. Jerred were surely purposely avoiding direct inter- 
course with each other, even by look. 


139 


140 


The Sacred Cup 

Margaret, in a spirit of growing curiosity, watched 
them, and for a whole hour she did not once see their 
eyes meet. This might have been the merest chance, 
and she certainly gave no dark significance to it. 
Nevertheless she could not help thinking about it. 

The Rector, in answer to a question she had asked in 
a casual tone, was explaining why Mr. Karnes did not 
so often come to Tamberfield now. He had borne 
down nearly all the opposition to him in Wivelscote — 
not by compromise of principle Say I 'm still 
shouting myself hoarse,’ ' Arnold had prompted, tell- 
ing them they ’re straining at gnats and swallowing 
tons of camels”), but by — by force of example and 
personality; and he had made so many friends, and his 
preaching was so much admired, and Mr. and Mrs. 
lyurgas so liked to have him at the vicarage, and were 
teaching him the classical but arduous game of chess — 
his time therefore was fully occupied, and chess play- 
ing, he said — made him feel — too tired to walk. 

Mr. Jerred thought he was overdoing the apology, 
making it inconclusive, and he suddenly said, ” I have 
told him how we miss his excellent sermons.” 

” We must go over to Wivelscote church some Sun- 
day, Gilbert,” Margaret said. ” You would n’t be 
offended, Mr. Jerred ? ” 

” Oh, no.” 

” It cannot be next Sunday, as Gilbert and I have 
arranged to receive together the Holy Communion 
from you.” 


The Sacred Cup 141 

Mr. Jerred at this fell into a profound silence. Dur- 
ing the years he had held the living of Lamberfield, 
Camoys had only once communicated; that was on his 
first Easter Sunday; and Mrs. Eewknor had hurt the 
Rector’s sense of propriety by saying, I made him go, 
to give you a good send-off, you know, and let you see 
we wanted to encourage you.” 

Knowing how beneficent was Miss Dyson’s influence 
over Camoys, he had been thinking how probable it 
was she would speak to him about this omission of a 
solemn obligation; and he had discussed the matter 
with Arnold Karnes, who had hesitated to give advice, 
saying, He may not perhaps quite come up to what 
the rubric calls a ‘ notorious evil liver.’ ” 

Mr. Jerred had pondered much over the rubric since 
then, and bearing all the circumstances in mind, he 
could not evade the conclusion that it applied with 
terrible force to Camoys- 

A gate was in the hedge on the farther side of the 
Rectory garden, and Mrs. Verdley entered by it from 
the common, carrying the child. She had been taking 
it out for an airing, and stopped, smiling with the 
pride of second motherhood as she lifted the gauzy veil 
from the child’s face. It was a source of uneasiness to 
Mr. Jerred that she should apparently have completely 
forgotten the little one’s unhappy parentage. It was 
not really that she was deficient in moral sense, but 
that being a sensible and practical-minded woman she 
was simply taking things as they were and making the 


142 The Sacred Cup 

best of them. In this, Miss Lyson sympathised with 
her. 

Is n't he getting on beautiful ? ” she said, looking 
directly at Camoys. “Lovelier every day, bless his 
merry little heart, and he 'll soon be eating us all out 
of house and home with his ravenous appetite. ' ' 

She remained awhile, trivial things being said, but 
Camoys was silent. His eyes wandered as though he 
could not trust himself to look at the child, and he was 
wishing that Mrs. Verdley would take it away. Mr. 
Jerred stood in the stillness of humility which always 
came upon him when thought transcended his capacity 
for action. 

“ Oh, Gilbert," said Margaret, “ you are not notic- 
ing baby." 

“ I 've been giving him signs to," said Mrs. Verdley, 
“ but he 's shy with you here, miss." 

Camoys laughed and bent his face over the child's. 
He saw himself there, but he did not see the dead face 
of the child's mother. Sometimes, when only Mrs. 
Verdley was present, he did see them both. But now 
there was danger, and the instinct of self-preservation 
was stronger in him than remorse. 

“ Hullo, little sleepy-head," he said, “ and what 's 
your opinion of the world in general ? — and are you 
beginning to think seriously of life yet ? " 

“ Give him a chance, sir," said Mrs. Verdley. “ The 
seriousness will come soon enough, won't it my 
precious little King David ? 


143 


The Sacred Cup 

When she was gone — Mr. Jerred had walked on to- 
wards the trees — Margaret said to Gilbert it was so 
fortunate the child had such a kind-hearted, motherly 
woman to look after him, and Camoys replied, Yes,’’ 
and paused. “ I wish,” he added, ‘‘she would n’t 
wear that fearfully tight-fitting black satin dress. It 
makes me feel that if I were to stick a pin into it she 
would go off pop! ” 

“ She is fairly substantial,” said Margaret. 

“ Yes, and has a will of her own. She won’t let the 
Rector send the child to one of those foundling places 
where they are slipped in through a hole in the door, 
and nobody is ever able to identify them again. That ’s 
a horrible thing to do, I think.” 

‘‘It isn’t done in England, Gilbert. You must 
have been reading about what they do abroad. And 
as for the child losing its identity, one might say the 
poor little thing has n’t got one to begin with, thanks 
to the wretched cowardice of its father. But I don’t 
think Mr. Jerred has any intention of giving it up.” 

“ I don’t know — I heard him say something to that 
effect. But he is easily persuaded.” 

Margaret smiled, shaking her head. “ He is not at 
all easily persuaded from doing what his conscience 
tells him is right. He is so gentle and good, and so 
ready to think the best of every one, he does at times 
give one the idea of being weak, but I am sure he 
could not be turned from a purpose he knew to be just, 
or made to do anything unjust ” 


144 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Oh, yes, he *s all right in that way.’’ 

Mr. Jerred waited for them, and Margaret asked him 
if he had heard from the Bishop again. 

‘‘Yes; I had a letter from his lordship this morning. 
It was very brief. He asks me to let him know, with- 
out delay, what I have done, as the matter has again 
been brought to his notice. His wife, he says, is pre- 
pared to find an institution if I am unable to decide 
upon one.” 

‘‘ This is what Mr. Karnes calls the officialism of 
Christianity! ” Margaret Tyson said with indignation. 
“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Jerred. What do you pro- 
pose to do now? ” 

He was gazing on the ground, and did not immedi- 
ately answer. 

So many painful — there are so many difficulties — 
which may arise — I have been considering whether it 
would not be the wisest course, and in the best interests 
of the child, for me to adopt the Bishop’s suggestion.” 

He lifted up his eyes to the sky and then turned 
away. 

‘‘Some of those institutions, no doubt,” said Mar- 
garet, walking by his side, “ are all that they should 
be, and the Bishop’s wife would not recommend one 
unless she knew it to be well conducted. Still, I 
should be very sorry indeed to see the child removed 
from Mrs. Verdley’s care.” 

“ So should I, Miss Tyson. But the Bishop’s letter 
is urgent in tone, and I should not like him to come 


145 


The Sacred Cup 

to lyamberfield for reasons which would cause him 
displeasure.*’ 

“ Oh, but why should you dread his coming here? 
He and father used to be on friendly terms in I^ondon. 
I really wish he would pay us a visit. Perhaps it is 
time he did! Then he would understand that there is 
no necessity whatever for him to interfere. And now 
— I have been thinking of this a good deal, though I 
have not spoken of it to any one — if the Bishop insists 
on the child’s being removed from the Rectory will you 
allow me to take it ? ” 

“ I — ” Mr. Jerred’s face assumed a stern expres- 
sion. ‘‘ I could not consent to that, Miss I^yson! ” 

“ Why not? ” she asked wonderingly. ‘‘ As I have 
said, I should deplore its being taken from Mrs. Verd- 
ley, but if that must be done, surely there can be no 
objection to my having it? I would hold myself re- 
sponsible for it, and see that it was properly brought 
up, educated, and suitably started in life. I should be 
quite willing to give any guarantee that might be 
required ” 

This,” said Mr. Jerred, in an agitated voice, “ has 
come upon me as a surprise, and I cannot say anything 
until ” 

He hesitated; and Camoys, who was grown pale, 
broke in : 

“ I don’t think it would look well, Margaret. You 
occupy a prominent position, and people might have 

all sorts of queer fancies.” 

10 


146 


The Sacred Cup 

It was the coarsest thought she had ever heard him 
utter. He did not mean it as an insult; she was sure 
of that; but it vexed her that he should so misunder- 
stand her as to say it. Her face was flushed as she 
looked at him. 

‘‘ That would not trouble me in the slightest, 
Gilbert.’^ 

** It would trouble me very much,’' he said. I 
beg of you not to think of doing anything of the kind. 
The Rector — you can see — agrees with me in this.” 

Mr. Jerred turned to Camoys. 

” No; I do not agree with you. We must not ab- 
stain from doing good because people may misinterpret 
our motives. My objection to Miss Tyson’s adopting 
the child is due to other reasons.” 

He moved on. Margaret did not pursue the subject, 
and nothing more was then said about it. A nervous 
strain was now upon all three, and they were a little 
startled by seeing a man’s head suddenly appear above 
the hedge from the other side of it. He glanced at 
Mr. Jerred and Miss Tyson, but seemed to be unaware 
of Camoys’ presence. 

” How do you do, Douglas ? ” the Rector said. 

” I ’m quite well, thank you,” he answered, and 
disappeared from their sight. 

” Those strange Shulmeres,” said Margaret. I 
had quite an exciting adventure in their cottage last 
evening. I had asked Miss Shulmere to do some work 
for me, and she unaccountably refused, but I thought 


147 


The Sacred Cup 

she was only in one of her peculiar moods, and so I 
called again. It is such a pity always to take unhappy 
people at their word. She was quarrelling with her 
brother, or rather he was raging at her. He does not 
actually ill-treat her.*’ 

Oh, no,” said Mr. Jerred, ‘‘he is not so bad as 
that.” 

“ He seemed beside himself with fury, and when I 
asked what was the matter he shouted out, ‘ She 
knows who it was that betrayed Lottie Ollett but she 
won’t tell me! ’ I said he must be mistaken, as his 
sister would not have kept it to herself had she known; 
and then something in her face gave me the oddest 
fright — I fancy I shivered — and I said to her, ‘ You 
don’t know, do you, Miss Shulmere? ’ and she said at 
once, with such a pitiful show of defiance, ‘Yes, I do 
know! ’ — and then in that eccentric manner of hers she 
hurried from the room, and I heard her shut herself 
into the kitchen and lock the door. I would have 
stayed, but her brother grew quiet all at once, and 
crouched before the fire. Her position has become 
terrible, and I wish something could be done. She 
used to be glad of my visits, but of late she has not 
made me feel welcome, and no doubt she spoke 
in that extraordinary way in order to stop me from 
going to see her. I shall go,” said Margaret, “all 
the same.” 

“There can’t be anything in her boast,” Camoys 
remarked. 


148 


The Sacred Cup 

I don’t suppose there is. But, in the high-strung 
state she is in, it would be cruel to leave her to herself. 
I know you call on her, Mr. Jerred, but she also needs 
a woman’s sympathy.” 

He did not answer; Margaret was surprised at his 
silence. They came to a bench under a beech tree; it 
had recently been painted, and was extremely green. 
As they sat down, ‘‘ It is quite dry,” said Mr. Jerred, 
” but I shall not feel comfortable on it again until it 
begins to fade.” 

In the corner in which Camoys sat was a small book 
with a sheet of paper under its cover, and he smilingly 
asked the Rector if he had been making notes for a 
sermon. 

” No. You may read it.” 

Camoys took out the paper and held it up. One side 
of it was covered with Mr. Jerred’s minute, clear writ- 
ing. Camoys read it aloud as though it were mean- 
ingless to him. 

And if any of those be an open and notorious evil 
liver ^ or have done any wrong to his neighbours by word 
or deed^ so that the Congregation be thereby offended ; the 
Curate^ having knowledge thereof^ shall call him and 
advertise him^ that in any wise he presume 7iot to come to 
the Lord^s Table, until he hath openly declared himself to 
have truly repented and amended his former naughty 
life, that the Congregation may thereby be satisfied, which 
before were offended ; and that he hath recompensed the 
parties, to whom he hath done zvrong ; or at least declare 


The Sacred Cup 149 

himself to be in full purpose so to do, as soon as he con- 
veniently may. ’ ’ 

‘‘ It sounds rather ancient,’' said Camoys. '' What 
is it?” 

” The rubric,” Mr. Jerred answered. 

“ I hope there is no one in Tamberfield,” said Mar- 
garet, ” against whom you intend to enforce it?” 

” I trust no such necessity may arise. I have only 
once been compelled to apply it, and it is a very dis- 
tressing experience, since it almost always brings grief 
and humiliation upon others besides the offender.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Margaret, “it must do that. Why — 
don’t think me rude or inquisitive, please — but why 
have you made a copy of it ? ” 

“ I have a habit of writing out things when I wish 
to impress them on my memory and to understand 
them in all their bearings.” 

Margaret held out her hand for the paper, and 
Camoys gave it to her. She read it to herself, and was 
strangely interested. 

“ In your handwriting it seems,” she said, looking 
into Mr. Jerred’s face with a simple smile, “ to have a 
meaning for me it has never had before. If one had a 
friend who came under this condemnation he would 
never be the same again.” 

“ He would rise higher,” said Mr. Jerred, “ or sink 
lower.” 

“Yes. And the shame would be in the deserving 
of it,” said Margaret. 


150 


The Sacred Cup 

“There is no shame possible to us, Miss Tyson, 
which may not be wiped out by repentance and 
atonement. “ 

She read aloud the words at the beginning: And if 
any of those be an open and notorious evil liver ^ or have 
done any wrong to his neighbours. . . . “ Again 

her eyes sought Mr. Jerred’s ; he was leaning back on 
the bench, gazing over the garden. “ If,” she said, 
“ what they are saying about Mr. Margesson were 
true, this would be applicable to him ? ’ ' 

“Yes.” 

Camoys stood up, but almost immediately sat down 
again. Mr. Jerred remained very still, and appeared 
not to be observing the young man’s restlessness. Mar- 
garet was looking once more at the paper. “ that 

he presume not to come to the Lord" s Table. . . . And,” 
she said, “ if any one so condemned were to persist in 
coming to receive the Sacrament, what would you do ? ” 

“ I should be obliged to refuse it.” 

“ Kven at the altar, before the congregation ? ” 

“ Yes. But I should first have warned him of my 
intention. I should hesitate so to act in the case of 
an ignorant man, who might be a drunkard, and was 
doing more harm to himself than to any one else. I 
could not refuse it to a Magdalen of these days who 
should crawl in from the streets and kneel at the altar 
rail in tears.” 

Mr. Jerred leaned forward in a stooping posture; 
then he sat upright. 


The Sacred Cup 151 

“ It would be very different in the case of a rich man 
who had done grave wrong to the poorest — to the least 
of my flock. Whatever the consequences might be, I 
dare not, God helping me, falter in my resolve to with- 
hold from him the Sacred Cup.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


Thky walked again in the garden. 

‘‘ How beautiful are these columbines/’ said Mar- 
garet. “ This one, lilac and pink, and so wonderfully 
formed! ” She stooped and held the stem between her 
fingers. If it were not common to all, we should see 
how lovely it is.” 

” Yes,” said Mr. Jerred; and as she put her hand 
under his arm, You hold the secret of the simple 
things,” he added tenderly, ” and you will therefore 
alwaj^s be a happy woman.” 

” Please don’t say ‘ always,’ ” she answered in a 
low voice. ” I have been so happy all my life, so 
favoured, such a spoilt darling of fortune, it seems to 
me sometimes that a change must come, and that I 
shall have my turn of suffering like all the others.” 

‘ ‘ Are you afraid of its coming ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes — yes and no.” She sighed, and pressed his 
arm as if he were her lover; Camoys was some way 
behind them. “ It would depend upon how it were to 
come to me. If I were to blame for it, having done 
wrong ” 

“ Don’t trouble, then,” said Mr. Jerred. ‘‘ Unhap- 
piness will not so come to you, I am sure.” 

152 


153 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Ah, but I am growing terribly selfish,’^ she replied. 

I have done nothing but think of myself ever since 
Gilbert asked me to marry him.’’ 

You have thought also of Mr. Camoys.” 

‘‘ Oh yes; but we are as one — going to be as one, as 
you would say.” 

‘‘ As our Ivord says,” he gently corrected her. 

When they reached the gate, Camoys not yet hav- 
ing overtaken them, Please give me something from 
George Herbert,” Margaret said, ” to remember during 
the day.” 

He had recalled a verse as she was speaking of the 
common flowers, and gave it to her in his soft, chant- 
ing tones. 

Thou art in small things great, not small in any : 

Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall. 

Thou art in all things one, in each thing many : 

For Thou art infinite in one, and all. 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ It is too long for me to 
remember it all, but I can remember the thought, and 
the first line, ‘ Thou art in small things great, not 
small in any.’ Is n’t it ‘ consider the lilies of the 
field ’ over again ? ’ ’ 

Yes,” said Mr. Jerred; ‘‘our highest perceptions 
of nature can never get beyond that.” 

For her sake, her dear sake, he smiled; but he was 
very sad as he returned alone to his garden. 


CHAPTER XX 


In Eamberfield church that afternoon the sexton 
was cleaning out the font, and Floretta Shulmere sat 
in a dark corner under the organ loft watching him. 
She had been there when he came in with a cloth and 
a pail of water; a baptism was to take place the next 
day, and the Rector was particular on these occasions 
to have the font made very clean. The sexton, puflBng 
and blowing over his work, said the parson would be 
in to inspect it his own self, and he ’d have it that full 
of fresh water anybody *d think he was going to 
drownd the infant. Floretta, her dull, sunken eyes 
fixed on the font, said a great many babies must have 
been baptised there. Ay,'' the sexton replied, and 
lots of them turned into old bones now, mouldering out 
there in the churchyard." 

‘‘ You can't remember my baptism," Floretta said. 

No, but I can your brother's, and a stately woman 
your mother was at it, to be sure. She would n't have 
it done till she was up an' about again. A wonderful 
woman for show and fine clo'se, and yet that childish 
an' soft-hearted I 've seen the tears roll down her 
plump cheeks without any sense in them that anybody 
could see." 


154 


The Sacred Cup 


155 


‘‘ My mother,’' said Floretta, was a lady by birth. 
She was never quite at home in a cottage. Her 
favourite song was ‘ I dreamt that I dwelt in marble 
halls.’ On her death-bed she was much distressed by 
the smallness of the room.” 

” It would have been bigger,” said the sexton, ” if 
she ’d been took to the workus.” 

” My mother,” Floretta remarked in a spiritless 
fashion, ” could not have died in the work-house.” 

” I doubt, my gell, whether Death would have said 
by your leave, mum, or with your leave.” 

Floretta asked how old the font was, and the sexton 
replied, Oh, about the same as the others.” This 
was the answer he gave to strangers who inquired the 
age of the church. He was finishing his work when 
Mr. Jerred entered, and said, ” This ’ll be to your 
taste, sir, I do believe,” wheeling his hand round and 
round in the leaden basin as though he were stirring 
a pot of porridge. 

” Yes, thank you, Hoskens; it is very clean and 
sweet. I will bring the water myself from the 
Rectory.” 

” You could lick it,” said the sexton, ‘‘ and not be 
sick.” 

He carried off his cloth and empty pail, and Mr. 
Jerred spoke to Floretta. She looked very depressed, 
but her manner told him no more than that she had 
come into the church for rest and quiet. He had 
no objection to people sitting in his church for the 


156 The Sacred Cup 

purpose of soothing their nerves; it would at least 
make them feel grateful, and that was a step up- 
ward. 

Floretta, indeed, had dragged herself into this 
corner, where the shadows had lingered for centuries, 
so that she might be stilled, if she could not be 
strengthened, by the calm of the place. This was a 
habit of hers in moments of unbearable stress of feel- 
ing, and as she was irregular in her attendance at the 
services, the villagers smiled and said it would make 
her feel as high-bred as her mother to have the church 
all to herself. 

She had once been caught kneeling on the altar step, 
in the place where only the parson should be (this was 
in the twilight of the day on which she had received 
Tottie Ollett's letter), and a busybody carried the tale 
of her profanity to the Rector, and it was believed he 
had scolded Floretta for taking such a wicked liberty. 
Mr. Jerred had done nothing of the sort; nor did he 
speak of the incident to her. Had he known she was 
there, with Tottie’s confession in her bosom, he would 
have knelt beside her, and his interpretation of the 
priestly office would not have been dwarfed in conse- 
quence. He was not readily given to making charges 
of irreverence, remembering the abysmal arrogance of 
the cry, “ This man blasphemeth.’' 

He sat beside Floretta, touched by her utter weari- 
ness, and thought of expressing his regret that she 
should have said anything to alarm Miss Tyson, par- 


157 


The Sacred Cup 

ticularly after her request that he should keep the 
secret, but he could not bring himself to say a word 
that might add to her suffering. 

“ I saw Douglas this morning. He passed by on the 
common, and looked over the hedge.’’ 

“ He said he had seen you, with Miss Dyson and 
Mr. Camoys. It was then I told him about Dottle’s 
letter.” 

Miss Shulmere— - Oh, why ? ” 

‘‘ I told him also about Mr. Camoys.” 

I am sorry it has come to this at last,” Mr. Jerred 
said, but not reproachfully. 

The Divine hand was moving on their lives in this 
little community, and what had been so long hidden, 
the wrong which had seemed to be without witness, 
was gradually, and in the strangest ways, being forced 
into the light of day. 

He was glad he had not been so very impatient after 
all. He was thankful he had tried to be charitably 
slow in his dealings with Camoys, and he felt that 
were he to do no more, but just wait for the culmination 
which is beyond human understanding, judgment must 
fall, exposure and punishment must ensue. He was 
too sincere to perceive that the catastrophe was grow- 
ing out of his own love and pity for an obscure and 
friendless girl and her babe : that all this that was hap- 
pening was in the logical sequence of his unselfishness. 
It has been so ever since the immortal breath was 
breathed into man and he became a living soul. There 


158 


The Sacred Cup 

is nothing on earth so sure as the retributive justice 
which is wrought, often unconsciously, often untraced, 
still more often misinterpreted, by humble fidelity to 
high ideals. 

‘‘You’ll be ashamed of me, Mr. Jerred, for my 
weakness in telling Douglas.” 

“ No, Miss Shulmere; I am not blaming you. I 
hope he did not use violence, to make you ” 

“ No; if he had I might never have told him. It 
was owing to his misery about Lottie. All along I ’ve 
wanted to tell him because of his love for her. I ’ve 
always heard a whispering in my head, — he ought to 
know — she was so much to him — it was like putting 
disgrace on his manhood and robbing him of his rights 
to keep it from him. Only the fear of what he might 
do to Mr. Camoys kept me silent, but at last the silence 
became more unbearable than the fear. If I had n’t 
told him I should have lost my reason, and been taken 
away, and our home would have been broken up, and 
my brother left a wanderer on the highway.” She 
sighed deeply. “ Then mother seemed to speak to me, 
and night after night I ’ve lain awake listening. I 
went into his room one night, and although he was 
asleep, I said, ‘ Douglas, Mr. Camoys is the father of 
Lottie’s baby.’ It was such a relief to me, I thought 
of waking him, and held the candle over his face. But 
he looked so tired, and his eyelashes were wet with the 
tears that had fallen in his dreams. All the next day 
I was saying it to myself, and I could n’t have gone 


159 


The Sacred Cup 

back to the silence that was making me lose my reason. 
I can’t help it, Mr. Jerred! ” 

She repeated these last words thrice, a pause between 
each utterance, but there was no variation in the dull 
monotony of her despair. 

Mr. Jerred assured her he did not think Douglas 
would act violently towards Mr. Camoys: this, how- 
ever, appeared to have no effect upon her. The per- 
spiration of fear and bodily exhaustion — the fear of 
love, the weakness caused by long self-denial — was on 
her brow, and she put her hand in her pocket, but had 
forgotten her handkerchief. Mr. Jerred took out his, 
and offered it to her, apologising for its being so large, 
and the wrong colour for a lady. She wiped her brow, 
and returned it to him, giving no thanks. Had he 
been capable of noticing the omission, he would have 
been incapable of the action. 

‘‘ I will see your brother, and speak very seriously 
to him. Oh, do try to lift up your heart! I know how 
you have sacrificed yourself for Douglas, and how 
bravely you have endured. You have done all you 
could; and we owe it to ourselves, you know, and to 
our faith, to believe that the bread of love which we 
have cast upon the waters will be returned to us. It 
never can be lost. It will all be given back to us in 
wonderful, wonderful recompense.” 

” Please don’t think too well of me,” she said. ‘‘ If 
I ’ve cast bread on the waters, as you say, some of 
it has been tainted. I ’ve never told you — but at first 


i6o The Sacred Cup 

I kept the secret from my brother in the hope he might 
try to forget Lottie, and care a little more for me/^ 

“ Ah, but that was love, too. That was nothing to 
your discredit, Miss Shulmere. Did he make any 
threat against Mr. Camoys? ** 

“ No. He only said Mr. Camoys had been in his 
mind ever since Lottie's murder, and then he left the 
house." 

“ Did he use that word — ‘ murder * ? " 

‘‘Yes. He has always said she was murdered by the 
man who betrayed her." 

“ Well, you must take a hopeful view. I would go 
to him at once if I knew where he was. Please tell 
him I should like to see him at the Rectory. I think 
he is not disinclined to have a chat with me occasion- 
ally. It is a pity his ideas on religion are so — so 
modern. He said to me once, ‘ If there is a God He 
is spread out too much for me to grasp Him and I 
have been thinking of an argument to combat that un- 
fortunate error. Say I said this, will you, and it may 
induce him to come, and we will have supper together, 
and then when I have got him in my clutches — so to 
speak — I shall reason with him in my most persuasive 
manner. And now. Miss Shulmere, I will leave you 
here, where it is so quiet. But had you not better 
take one of those more comfortable pews nearer the 
chancel? Let me be a churchwarden for once — or 
rather a sidesman; churchwardens are such important 
persons " 


i6i 


The Sacred Cup 

She obeyed automatically. He led her to the I^yson 
pew, rested his hand for a moment affectionately on 
her shoulder, said cheerfully, Don't forget, my dear, 
to lift up your heart and then left the church, shut- 
ting the door behind him to keep out the draught. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Hk went on to Alard Place, resolved, in view of 
what Miss Tyson had said regarding Gilbert’s intention 
on the next Sunday (this was Tuesday), to show the 
young man Tottie’s letter, of which he had made a 
copy. He had enough of the wisdom of the serpent 
not yet to trust the original out of his hands. 

But Camoys was not at home, and Mr. Jerred has- 
tened away on hearing Mrs. Tewknor’s voice at the far 
end of the great gloomy hall. He could not under- 
stand how any one should like to live with all that 
rusty old armour, weapons of war, the killing things of 
savage peoples, and those monstrous horns, skins, and 
heads of wild animals. The De Camoys had been 
mighty hunters in the past, and soldiers and sailors; 
and now the last of the race was under the eclipse of 
moral lawlessness. 

Mr. Jerred returned to the Rectory, and found Ar- 
nold Karnes there. He was in the study, selecting a 
pipe from his '' No. 2 collection,” and without turning 
from that absorbing occupation he gave his usual 
greeting, ‘‘Hullo, Jim! I ’ve just come in,” he added. 
“ What on earth have you been doing with my pipes ? ” 
162 


The Sacred Cup 163 

‘‘Nothing, Arnold, but I fancy Mrs. Verdley has 
been washing them.*' 

“ Bless her, bless her! ” said Karnes. 

‘ ‘ She was saying the other day that they had a 
nasty smell, and ought to be soaked in disinfecting 
soap for a few hours.’’ 

“She has done it,” said Karnes. “That woman 
has no legitimate claim to respectability.” 

“Arnold!” 

“ Well, she can’t have had a respectable English 
smoking husband, or she ’d have known better.” He 
sniffed along the row of pipes. “ Carbolic! the stuff 
they scrub floors with! I wish, Jim, you had the nat- 
ural man’s appreciation of bad language. There ’s a 
word they use for stopping the flow of water. Dam.” 

“ Now let it remain there, Arnold.” 

“ The rest is in the interior,” said Karnes, “ panting 
to get out.” 

“ Where have you been to-day ? ” 

“ Over the hills and far slwslj , I ’ve had another 
run with Margesson the scapegoat. There were a pair 
of us. We made fun of each other.” 

“ Oh, no; Roland would n’t do that.” 

“ Well, I made fun of him and of myself.” 

“Yes, that sounds more probable.” 

“ I put to him a test in psychological foxiness, and 
he broke down utterly. I asked him how many people 
there were in Eamberfield worth knowing besides him- 
self. He laughed at that. He said the Rector and 


164 


The Sacred Cup 

Miss Lyson. He does n’t find Camoys in the least in- 
teresting. Queer that, is n’t it? The tragic point in 
our lives may for a long while be as fine to us as the 
point of a needle. Camoys scarcely comes within the 
range of Margesson’s perception of things! He does n’t 
make the smallest appeal to his imagination. Ah, 
well! — O Jim, Jim, tell them to fetch a lot of tea.” 

Mr. Jerred having spoken to Mrs. Verdley from the 
hall, explained briefly to Karnes what had occurred 
since their last talk, but refrained from asking his 
advice. It was a mutual regret in a friendship hitherto 
uninterrupted by a single discord, that circumstances 
should have arisen making it impossible for them to be 
perfectly candid with each other in this crisis. They 
could not even refer to the cause of their silence. 

have made several attempts,” said Mr. Jerred, 
” to answer the Bishop’s letter, but I don’t seem to be 
able to word it convincingly. I sent an acknowledg- 
ment by return of post, promising a further reply, and 
if I can’t — I suppose I shall have to go again to the 
palace.” 

Don’t,” said Karnes. Keep your nose out of 
the episcopal den. The Bishop is a Philistine.” 

” Oh, no, Arnold.” 

‘‘ Oh yes, Jim. The Philistines of these days are the 
people who try to make Christians, beneficed clergy, 
and curates, and other sensitive spirits do vulgar things. 
You ’re a match for his lordship in one way— your 
own way — but if you were to give him a chance he 


The Sacred Cup 165 

might lick you into shape — I mean out of shape — 
with the rod of authority.'' 

“ My own way ? " said Mr. Jerred inquiringly. 

By doing what you believe to be right, and going 
on marvelling why any bishop, priest, or deacon should 
expect you to do anything else." 

"I see," said Mr. Jerred. "You mean I am 
obstinate." 

" I don't, and you 're a silly little story-teller to say 
it." 

"Ah, well!" exclaimed Mr. Jerred, imitating Ar- 
nold's voice and manner. 

" Your boys are at their first cricket on the com- 
mon," said Karnes, "and when I 've inspired myself 
with tea I 'm off for a game with them. Jack Peters 
caught sight of me as I crossed, and began in grand 
style; he was out in two twos. You have n't any 
style, Jim, but you 're a stayer. Ah, here 's Mrs. 
Verdley; bless her, bless her!" He gravely thanked 
her for having scrubbed his pipes so beautifully clean. 
" You 've made them look so sweetly innocent," he 
said, " I scarcely recognise them as my old pals." 

She smiled knowingly to herself. 

"I only gave them a soak in a pail for a night. 
Next morning the dog put the tip of his tongue in the 
water, and yelled and ran away. The poor thing 
thought he 'd been poisoned, and no wonder," said 
Mrs. Verdley, going out. 

" Is n't she a downright woman ? " said Karnes. 


1 66 The Sacred Cup 

In our small domestic arguments/' said Mr. Jerred, 
“ I have occasionally flattered myself I may have been 
in the right, but she has a rooted objection to allowing 
me to persist in that harmful idea." 

‘‘ Never mind; she can make tea almost as well as I 
make it myself," said Karnes. “As for Shulmere, 
you need n’t bother yourself in that direction. He 
does n’t strike me as being of the murderous type. It 
may be in him, but he can’t have enough force of 
character for action or he would n’t be the special lost 
sheep of your Israel. His sister curiously interests 
me. She was born for service, but does n’t quite be- 
lieve she has been called. She will always want to be 
just outside the gates of Paradise; I doubt if she would 
feel altogether happy if she were to be invited in. She ’s 
bound to imagine vain and horrible things. She has 
such a capacity for love in herself, and it has been so 
starved — God help her! — she exaggerates the madden- 
ing effects of its unrequital on her brother." 


CHAPTER XXII 


When Karnes had gone, Mr. Jerred put an imagin- 
ary case to Mrs. Verdley as she was removing the tea 
things. 

He ** supposed ’’ it, he fancied, ingeniously; his ob- 
ject being to ascertain from that region still so mys- 
terious to him, a ^‘downright woman’s” point of 
view, what wedlock with Camoys might mean to Miss 
Tyson were she to enter upon it undeceived, and after- 
wards learn the truth. 

Supposing Roland Margesson were to go away, and 
in due course be married, without telling his wife of 
the present scandal, and it were to come to her know- 
ledge — what would she do ? 

I know what I should do,” said Mrs. Verdley. 

Yes — no doubt. That is just the question.” 

‘ ‘ I should call the woman who told me a liar, and 
then go and have it out with him.” 

Mr. Jerred was so startled by this answer, he sat 
down and gazed at his housekeeper. 

** Quite so. Oh, yes — you would be very firm. But 
supposing he were to deny it ? ” 

'' I might believe him or I might n’t. That would 
167 


1 68 The Sacred Cup 

depend on the man. If anybody had said it about 
my Dick I should have known the minute I spoke to 
him whether it was true or not. As for that, I should 
have known long before I was told. He never could 
keep a thing from me; I saw through and through 
him like glass. You often make me think of him, sir.' * 
I am sorry, Mrs. Verdley " 

^‘Oh, I don't fret. Life is short, as they say in 
the Scriptures. ‘ As soon 's I 'm gone, old gell,' poor 
Dick said to me on his death-bed, ‘ just you shove me 
into an orange box, and hurry up and find another.' " 

‘‘Yes," said Mr. Jerred, already feeling at the end 
of his resources in fathoming the feminine heart. 
‘‘ But supposing, further, that Roland's wife found the 
story to be true after all — what then would she do ? " 

‘‘ If she loved him she 'd hold her tongue. If he 
turned out a bad lot she would let him hear about it. 
I should at any rate." 

“ But it would make a difference in their married life 
— to them both — would n't it? " 

“She could never forget it, if that 's what you 
mean." 

“ Thank you," said Mr. Jerred, turning to his writ- 
ing table. “ Now I must write an important letter to 
the Bishop." 

“Give him my kind regards," said Mrs. Verdley, 
“ and tell him baby is quite well, thank you, and has 
made up his mind to stay where he is." 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Bui" the letter was not written that day; or the 
next; and on the Friday before the momentous Sun- 
day — the Sunday on which Margaret Lyson and Gil- 
bert Camoys were to kneel together at the altar — Mr. 
Jerred had still sent no reply to his diocesan. 

He began then to fancy the distant rumblings of 
episcopal thunder, and expected by every post a per- 
emptory note commanding him to appear forthwith at 
the palace. His delay was not at all due to discourt- 
esy, and not wholly to indecision. He knew what he 
must say, but a series of anxieties regarding others in 
whose happiness he was deeply concerned prevented 
him from saying it. 

He went twice to Alard Place, only to be told that 
Mr. Camoys was not at home; and he was at last com- 
pelled to the conclusion that the young man was seek- 
ing to avoid him. 

He was certain that Douglas Shulmere was keeping 
out of his way. He had not once seen him since his 
talk with Floretta in the church, and she became more 
incomprehensible to Mr. Jerred owing to her apparent 
reluctance to give him any assistance in finding her 

i6g 


170 


The Sacred Cup 

brother. He called again and again at their cottage, 
morning, noon, and night, but she had always the 
same story to tell, ** I don't know where he is"; and 
she never now asked the Rector to come in. 

She said Douglas was well in health, and behaving 
very quietly, and that he had made no further reference 
to Lottie or to Mr. Camoys. She thought he went to 
Muntham every day, but could not be sure. He came 
home to sleep — sometimes in the middle of the night 
— and left early in the morning. 

Mr. Jerred, being slow to apprehend duplicity in 
any one, at first took her evasions in good faith. One 
evening, however, after she had denied that her 
brother was at home, he was thoroughly upset on see- 
ing Shulmere’s ghost-like face at a window as he 
passed round by the back of the cottage. He stopped, 
and looked up, almost doubting what he saw, but was 
convinced by Shulmere's withdrawing from sight. 

The next day he learned a graver thing about the 
village degenerate. Feeling miserable and desponding, 
he had gone up on the hills, and was gradually cheered 
and uplifted by the intensity of light and space and 
the illimitable bright green all round him. The sense 
of the vastness of nature did not have the effect of an- 
nihilating in Mr. Jerred the idea of the Creator; a 
great day and a great sorrow brought heaven nearer to 
him. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked 
down at his tiny church; it was cruciform, and the 
symbol held for him the final meaning and the final 


The Sacred Cup 171 

consolation of all things. The wind blew softly from 
the west, and he could hear the cathedral bells, a 
gracious aerial music which gave him the Beatitudes 
mood: 

Now I in you without a body move, 

Rising and falling with your wings : 

We both together sweetly live and love, 

Yet say sometimes, “ God help poor kings. 

He descended again to the village, and as he was 
looking over the low rubble wall of the shoemaker's 
garden, asking an old dog why he should be so silly 
as to scratch out that big hole in the ground, and bury 
himself in it, when he had such a nice barrel with 
clean straw to lie in, Mrs. Hoddinott came waddling 
down the garden path, motioning to him not to go 
away. The path was bordered with her empty patent 
medicine bottles, sunk neck first half-way into the 
earth — one hundred and forty-seven of them; she had 
kept count, having made this novel ornamentation 
herself, Hoddinott stoutly refusing to be a party to 
such tomfoolery. She sat on the wall, panting and 
holding her hand to her side. 

I 've just took my drops, sir, on top of Susan’s 
seed cake, and it an’t settled yet.” 

” It would ‘settle’ your flowers,” said Mr. Jerred, 
“ if any was left in those brazen regiments of bottles.” 

” Go along with you, do,” said Mrs. Hoddinott. 
“ Everybody admires them excep’ father.” 

She let her voice fall to a whisper; telling the Rector 


172 The Sacred Cup 

how as she was returning that morning through Val- 
lum wood from a visit to her eldest daughter (who was 
again ''expecting'’) she had been shocked to find 
Douglas Shulmere lying insensible near a rabbit war- 
ren, with a revolver clasped in his hand, and foam on 
his lips. He must have been poaching, though she 
had never heard it of him before, and nobody decent 
would eat wild rabbits at that time of year, and had 
been seized with a fit from fright lest the keepers 
should catch him. She unfastened his collar and shirt, 
and when he recovered she said if he ’d promise not 
to go a-poaching again, and disgrace his sister with the 
police at the door, she would hold her tongue about it 
— but she thought the Rector ought to know, so ’s to 
keep his eye on the worthless fellow, and give him a 
talking to in a roundabout way. 

" How he came to have a revolver; with never a 
penny in his pocket from laziness, I can’t think.” 

"Please don’t speak of it,” said Mr. Jerred. "I 
will make a point of seeing him as soon as possible.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Camoys was at the Rectory that night with defiance 
of the Rector graphic upon him from head to foot. 
He had met some friends of his own age during the 
day, and their chatter about his good fortune in being 
engaged to Miss Tyson had rather turned his head. 
His assertive manner astonished Mrs. Verdley as she 
let him in; he entered the study, however, outwardly 
calm, although Mr. Jerred at once detected the lawless 
energy he was trying to conceal. 

I hear you 've called at Alard several times this 
week to see me.’* 

‘‘ Yes. Had you not come I should have sent you 
a note this evening.” 

” What ’s it all about ? ” 

Please sit down,” said Mr. Jerred. 

Camoys’ demeanour in taking a chair was not free 
from insolence. He was carrying a riding- whip, 
which, as he had walked, was a piece of rudeness in 
itself, and he slashed it noisily on his legging and boot. 
This aspect of the young man’s character was new to 
Mr. Jerred, and he sorrowfully deplored it not because 
173 


174 


The Sacred Cup 

of its incivility to himself, but because it indicated a 
haughty and rebellious spirit. 

The truth was that Camoys* fading boyish dream 
of the restoration of his family to its former exalted 
position in the county had been revived by his engage- 
ment to Margaret. Our youthful visions may grow 
dim, but it is doubtful if they are ever obliterated. 
Camoys’ had receded under pressure of circum- 
stances. Everything had depended on his own efforts; 
being poor, he had been compelled to live in an isola- 
tion which gave him acquaintances but few intimate 
friends among the people of his own class; and he had 
thought, in spite of Mrs. Eewknor’s incentives to am- 
bition, that a galling existence on the brink of poverty 
would be always his. He had not sufficient intellec- 
tual force to carry him to individual success. 

He was capable of the love that leaps to its destiny 
in reckless disregard of consequences to himself or to 
others; his love for Margaret Lyson was not of that 
sort, but it was sincere enough so far as it went, and 
it was so little tainted with conscious sordidness that 
he would quite honestly have resented the suggestion 
that he was marrying her because she was rich. Her 
mind was largely a mystery-land to him; he could not, 
for one thing, understand how a woman so immensely 
wealthy in her own right could be content to live in a 
dead-alive village where she had not a single social 
equal as her immediate neighbour, when she might 
be making a triumphal progress about Eondon with 


175 


The Sacred Cup 

crowds of worshippers in her train; and, failing to un- 
derstand, he was as superstitious about it as he could 
be about anything — a good deal more superstitious, in 
fact, than he was with regard to the net of fate spread- 
ing upon him from his own moral lapse. That had 
been one of the intensities of his passion; he would 
never forget it, and he thought more tenderly of Tottie 
than Mr. Jerred, judging by his subsequent behaviour, 
believed possible. 

It was clear to Camoys that the Rector had by some 
means obtained knowledge of this incident, and were it 
to be noised abroad, and reach Margaret’s ears, and she 
were to annul their engagement, his chances of making 
an equally advantageous match would be very remote 
indeed. Much, therefore, depended on Mr. Jerred, and 
Camoys was not wise enough to make peace with him, 
and too proud to meet him half way. For ever since 
the startling conversation on the green bench under 
the trees he had been nurturing a bitter resentment 
against the Rector; and as his repeated calls at Alard 
plainly showed that he did not intend to let the matter 
rest, Camoys had defiantly come to the Rectory to learn 
the worst. 

Hitherto, in his heart, he had felt an amused contempt 
for this meek and mild little bachelor; yet at the same 
time he had respected him because of his goodness to 
the poor, and especially because of his kindness to the 
child. Camoys was a whole-hearted admirer of power; 
and in all that power meant to him, Mr. Jerred was the 


176 


The Sacred Cup 

exact opposite. We make these mistakes, and the 
record of them is written in immortal lives; the humble 
have inexhaustible reserves, and it is rarely vouchsafed 
to the powerful to speak the epilogue. It seemed to 
Camoys improbable that the Rector would do anything 
mean or vindictive; he was a gentleman. He might 
nevertheless act so absurdly, so fanatically even, as to 
bring about some irreparable disaster. And the young 
man had the savage foolishness to imagine that he 
could bully him into silence. 

‘‘ I was in Muntham when you came to Alard yes- 
terday. Would not my aunt have done as well about 
parish affairs ? . . . I had to call on my solicitor, 

Mr. Grayling; he has something to do with the cathe- 
dral Chapter. One thing led to another, and I hap- 
pened to mention what you said about refusing the 
Sacrament. He says a clergyman could n't legally do 
it." 

‘‘No harm will come, I think," said Mr. Jerred 
quietly, “ by your disregarding in future your solicitor's 
opinion on my spiritual duties." 

“ Oh, but that 's not the point; it 's a question of 
legality." 

“ The matter had not so presented itself to me," Mr. 
Jerred observed. 

“ But he says they don't allow a man to be insulted 
and slandered in church in these days. He advises 
me that such a refusal would be actionable in a court 
of law." 


177 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘Then/’ said Mr. Jerred, still speaking in very 
quiet tones, “ we must take it to a higher court — the 
court of conscience.” 

Camoys was growing more restless. 

” The clergyman who did it — so Mr. Grayling says 
— would be making himself liable to heavy penalties.” 

” We need not go into that,” said Mr. Jerred. ” In 
such a matter I am under the law of God, the law of 
His Church, and I assure you — and I beg of you to 
take this assurance as final — that nothing which the 
law of man may have to say on the subject can influ- 
ence me in the slightest degree.” 

‘ ‘ But if a legal action were brought against you it 
might result in your ruin! ” 

‘ ‘ My ruin ? ’ ’ 

” Well, in a monetary sense.” 

” Please don’t let that trouble you, Mr. Camoys. It 
would not be at all difiicult to ruin me in a monetary 
sense, and I scarcely think it would be worth any one’s 
while. The benefice of Lamberfield ’ ’ 

” It used to be in my family’s gift! ” 

“ Yes; I have lately been thinking of that. It sup- 
plies me with just sufficient to live on frugally, and 
very little margin is left for the maintenance of the 
children of men who choose to ignore their natural 
responsibilities.” 

It was a straight thrust, such as only a compassion- 
ate man could give with full force, and Camoys flushed 
angrily as he cried out, “ I know well enough what 


178 


The Sacred Cup 

you ’re driving at — and what you meant about with- 
holding the Sacrament — but my soUcitor advises me 
the whole thing is slanderous, and totally without 
foundation! 

Mr. Jerred took from his pocket the copy he had 
made of I^ottie Ollett’ s letter to Floretta Shulmere. He 
handed it to Camoys, saying gently, ‘‘Please read this.’' 

“ It is in your handwriting.” 

“ Yes, but I possess the original.” 

Mr. Jerred, not caring to look at the young man as 
he read the pitiful words of the mother of his child, 
went to the door, opened it noiselessly, so as not to 
arouse Mrs. Verdley’s curiosity, and loitered awhile in 
the hall. 

When he again entered the study he was sadly dis- 
appointed at not perceiving in Camoys the emotion 
he had expected, nay, hoped for. “ It may be,” he 
charitably thought, ‘‘he would have been more touched 
had I shown him the original letter.” But he did not 
show it to him, and Camoys did not at once ask to see it. 

He was more subdued in manner, and made no 
further attempt at denial. He gave, however, no sign 
of being broken by remorse; he was sorry, but not 
more than sorry. He could not understand what he 
had done as the Rector understood it. He possessed 
what is called natural religion, which is the golden 
rule unillumined, but that did not take him into Mr. 
Jerred’ s light. 

He had no doubt acted shabbily, but his conduct 


179 


The Sacred Cup 

had hardly been dishonourable, and certainly not un- 
manly. Nobody said he was an immoral man. Theirs 
had been a moment of madness — the madness in which 
youth cries out for expression in passion, the irresisti- 
ble cry of springtide surging in the blood, the accident 
of an hour when the very air sang of love. He could 
have excused himself for holding up his head under 
this blow of discovery; and he would have been just as 
ready to find excuses for Lottie Ollett. 

He put the copy of her letter on the table, and looked 
at Mr. Jerred, who had again seated himself. Neither 
spoke for some moments. 

Is it necessary to keep this now ? 

No.’’ 

Camoys, still looking at Mr. Jerred, slowly tore it 
up, and put the pieces carefully in his pocket. He 
glanced about on the floor to make sure that no atom 
had fallen through his fingers. 

“ What has become of the original ? ” he asked. 

'' It is in my possession.” 

” What are you going to do with it ? ” 

” I must preserve it for the child’s sake.” Mr. 
Jerred paused. ”Not only for the child’s sake. There 
are others to consider.” 

” Miss Shulmere,” said Camoys presently, ” would 
read it, of course. Does any one else know ? ’ ’ 

'' Yes — her brother.” 

” That loafing blackguard! But he can be silenced 
with a five-pound note.” 


i8o 


The Sacred Cup 

“You should not rely on that. Shulmere was at- 
tached to Lottie, and I am afraid he harbours revenge- 
ful feelings towards you.’^ 

“ But he 's as low down as he can be, and nobody 
would believe the story if it came from him alone. He 
does n't count, if there 's no one else that will speak. 
His sister has kept the secret so long she won’t be 
likely to let it out now.” 

“ She told me, and she has told her brother.” 

“She would want to tell you in any case. But 
as you have the letter, even if she were to talk, 
and Shulmere also, they ’re both such queer peo- 
ple everybody would give me the benefit of the 
doubt. If a rumour were to reach Miss Lyson’s ears 
from such a quarter it could easily be explained 
away.” 

Camoys assumed a coaxing air, and drew his chair 
nearer to the Rector’s. 

“ It all now depends on you, sir. If you will deal 
considerately with me I don’t see why it should n’t be 
kept quiet always.” Camoys paused; Mr. Jerred had 
turned away his eyes. “ Don’t you think — would it 
be too much to ask you to give me the original letter ? 
You would n’t suffer in the future if you were to let me 
have it. I suppose you ’ll be Rector here all your life, 
and as I shall be at Alard a good deal after my mar- 
riage — and so you will often be meeting my wife — it 
would be awful for us all if she were to get to know 
of that letter. You can’t surely refuse to be kind to 


The Sacred Cup i8i 

Miss lyyson, even though you may feel a grudge 
against me.’’ 

Mr. Jerred looked at him with a benign yet stern ex- 
pression. “ I cannot give the letter up. It is the sole 
documentary evidence Of the child’s parentage.” 

‘‘ But I am not,” Camoys urged, ” going to abandon 
the little one. The first time I held him in my arms 
and looked in his eyes I knew he was mine, and I ’ve 
never wavered in my intention to see that he was 
properly brought up and got a fair start in life. You 
can’t really believe, sir, that I would have deserted the 
child?” 

“You deserted the child’s mother ” 

“She never told me! I never spoke to her again 
after ” 

“ You deserted the child’s mother I ” Mr. Jerred re- 
peated, his voice shaking. “ Until her letter was given 
to me I had no knowledge of her betrayer. I use that 
word advisedly. It is far indeed from my wish to be 
harsh with you, Mr. Camoys. I feel no animosity to- 
wards you, as you appear to think, and even if I did it 
would cease owing to my regard — my veneration — for 
the noble-hearted lady who has promised to be your 
wife. But I cannot forget that prior to my making 
this discovery about you there was no indication of 
your intention to come forward and own the child. On 
the contrary, you have maintained a cruel and selfish 
silence, leaving others unjustly to bear the public 
odium of your sin, and I regret I cannot feel persuaded 


i 82 


The Sacred Cup 

that you would even now have admitted your responsi^ 
bility had you not been compelled to do so by the ex- 
istence of this letter. It must therefore remain in my 
possession.” 

Camoys rose and pushed back his chair. He could 
not whimper or play the hypocrite ; if he was going to 
be driven into a corner he would make a fight for it. 
He began again to beat his leg with his whip. 

“ Whether I admit my responsibility or not, there 's 
one thing certain at any rate — I ’m not going to lose 
sight of the child. Good God ! ” Camoys cried, do 
you think I ’m ashamed of being his father? I tell 
you I ’m not ! If it ’s ever possible for me to own him 
before the whole world I shall do it! ” 

He strode across the room, and came back to the 
table ; his eyes were brilliant with excitement. 

‘‘You said in your garden that day you thought the 
Bishop would insist on your giving him up — sending 
him to a charity home or some degradation of that sort 
— and I said to myself, ‘I’m damned if they ’ll treat 
my child in that way!’ Now you know my opinion 
on the subject ! ” 

Mr. Jerred also stood up. 

“ Will you, then, take it to Alard Place, and let all 
the people who have been deceived — and have done so 
much injustice towards another because of the decep- 
tion — clearly understand why it is there? ” 

“ No — I can’t do that ! ” 

Camoys went to the window and stood looking out. 


183 


The Sacred Cup 

He could see the green bench under the trees, and it 
brought to him his old dread of what Margaret might 
do. The Rector had put him in a fix, but this was 
as nothing compared with the crash of all things, 
and the surrender of Alard, which would inevitably 
follow the ending of his engagement. He turned 
from the window, and while he would not snaffle he 
toned down his voice and manner to the semblance of 
repentance. 

May I ask, sir, if you have come to any arrange- 
ment with the Bishop? ’’ 

No — not yet. I shall go to the palace and consult 
him again.” 

‘ ‘ Will you tell him about me ? ” 

” That may not be necessary.” 

Camoys sat down. 

” If I had said nothing — and the Bishop had made 
you give the child up — there would have been no more 
bother about it.” 

” Please, please,” said Mr. Jerred, ‘‘do not go on 
misleading yourself regarding my intentions. It is not 
only the child of whom I am obliged to think. It is 
not only you and Miss Tyson. An unmerited disgrace 
— an indelible disgrace if it be not removed — is hanging 
over Roland Margesson.” 

‘‘ The grocer? ” 

“ Oh, try to understand,” said Mr. Jerred, earnestly, 
“ that one of my flock, however lowly his station, is as 
dear to me as another. Tottie Ollett was my servant — 


1 84 The Sacred Cup 

and I, under our heavenly Father, am the servant of 
all/’ 

I must say, sir, you don’t seem to be showing me 
much mercy.” 

” I am very sorry for you, Mr. Camoys. But mercy 
may be wrong, you know, if it is all on one side, and 
others are made to suffer. Moreover, if I were put to 
a choice, the poor and helpless would have the first 
claim upon me.” 

” But Margesson could be recompensed — or rather 
his mother could be, so that she might live pleasantly 
in retirement — and he would be none the worse if he 
went to a town and got a situation. No one would 
know anything about it there, and he would n’t want 
to return to Lamberfield. I wish you would try to 
understand it in that way.” 

” Yes, I do so understand it, but it is not enough. 
It leaves a great injustice unremoved.” 

” Oh, but no suspicion has fallen on any one else. 
No one else has been injured ” 

” One moment,” said Mr. Jerred, holding up his 
hand in solemn reproof. ” Lottie Ollett is dead, and 
in all human probability she would have been alive to- 
day had she not been so basely betrayed.” 

Camoys sat silent awhile. There was a tap on the 
door, and Mrs. Verdley came in with little David. 
She liked to see Mr. Camoys holding the child in his 
arms. But he did not look at her, and after pausing a 
moment with a puzzled air, she said to the Rector, ” I 


The Sacred Cup 185 

was wondering, sir, whether you still had company,’* 
and went away. Camoys gazed at the door. 

''I do wish, Mr. Jerred,” he said, ‘'you would 
arrange with the Bishop — he is paying Sir Ar- 
denne Lyson a visit on Sunday; I suppose you 
know ? ” 

“No, I did not.” 

“ Well, you might see him at Chantry House ; Miss 
Lyson could ask you to meet him at luncheon — and 
persuade him to stop worrying about this. Then if 
you would keep the child awhile — till after my mar- 
riage — and then I assure you a good home will be 
found for him and he *11 be well looked after. I don’t 
think, sir, this is asking an excessive favour, and you 
won’t regret it. Everything depends on your doing 
nothing — at least not until I am married. It would be 
frightful for anything to come out, but it would n’t be 
so disastrous after our marriage. Miss Tyson is very 
generous and broad-minded, but if it — she has n’t the 
faintest idea, you know, that I am mixed up in this. 
You heard her say she would be glad to adopt the little 
one herself.” 

“ I should not allow Miss Tyson to do so.” 

“ But why should you object? ” 

Mr. Jerred gazed steadily at Camoys. “ Oh, how 
can you — you of all men — ask me such a question ? I 
am sure Miss Tyson would not understand, by adopt- 
ing the child, the mere spending of money on its being 
brought up by strangers. It w^ould mean a personal 


The Sacred Cup 


1 86 

care to her. And would you desire your wife to take 
the child into your home ? 

Camoys, interpreting this as the Rector’s declaration 
of no compromise, was on the point of another out- 
burst, but restrained himself. 

^‘You ’ve got rather queer and old-fashioned no- 
tions,” he said, ‘‘ and I can’t pretend to follow you in 
them.” 

I have made every allowance for your youth,” said 
Mr. Jerred. ” Had you been an older man I should 
not have procrastinated as I have done.” 

“ What, then, do you want me to do ? ” 

‘‘I have no wish to dictate to you, but there can 
be on my part no evasion of ministerial duty. I 
hope you will make such amends as may be in your 
power.” 

‘‘To whom?” 

‘‘ To Roland Margesson.” 

At this Camoys could no longer hold himself in. 

“So it seems you want me,” he cried fiercely, “ to 
stand up in the middle of the village in a white sheet 
— or sackcloth or rubbish of that sort — as they did in 
the old days of priestly tyranny! I don’t think you ’ll 
see me making such an exhibition of myself. It ’s 
absolutely out of the question! ” 

Mr. Jerred was not dismayed by this outburst. “ I 
have not suggested or thought of anything like that,” 
he answered. “ But you appear to overlook the fact 
that the public reprobation of wrong-doing is not neces- 


i87 


The Sacred Cup 

sarily associated with priestly tyranny. Already in 
the eyes of the people of this village a young man is 
going about wearing the garb of shame they have 
forced upon him. Is it nothing to you that Roland 
Margesson should day after day — month after month — 
have your sin written, as it were, on his forehead ? If 
there is to be the sheet of guilt why should another 
wear it for you ? I beg of you,'’ continued Mr. Jerred 
gravely, ‘‘ not to speak to me again of monetary con- 
siderations. There are wounds w^hich money cannot 
heal. Is it nothing to you that an aged mother should 
be grieving every hour and failing in health under the 
burden of injustice done to her loved one? Again, do 
not insult my Christian intelligence by saying there 
will presently be plenty of money with which to com- 
pensate her." 

" I did not say ‘presently’," Camoys corrected hotly. 
“ You put that in my mouth, and of course I know 
what you mean by it! ’’ 

" I beg 3^our pardon if I have used a word offensively, 
but I cannot forget that you have asked me to keep the 
child till after your marriage. In any case, there can 
be no adequate recompense for a mother’s sorrow over 
the wrongful dishonour of her son, short of the stigma 
being removed from his name. And is it nothing to 
you that Miss Shulmere, who ought to be supported 
rather than oppressed, is holding in fear and trembling 
a secret which has caused antagonism and hatred be- 
tween her and her brother?" 


1 88 The Sacred Cup 

But how can I be blamed for that? I ’ve never 
spoken to the woman in my life! 

“ The secret which so weighs upon her, and is de- 
creasing the small amount of happiness she has ever 
had, is the direct result of your sin.’' 

“ You ’re very fond,” said Camoys, barely conceal- 
ing a sneer, of using that word ‘ sin.’ ” 

Mr. Jerred lifted up his head. 

It means something to me, and I most deeply re- 
gret that it should appear to mean so little to you. I 
did pity you, Mr. Camoys — yes, and I think I pity you 
still more now — and I would have made almost any 
personal sacrifice to save you from exposure. But I 
find you hardening your heart against the voice of con- 
science. I find you contemplating further deception — 
in your marriage with a pure and generous girl — and 
you are asking me to be a party in deceiving her ” 

” That ’s not true! ” Camoys flashed out. He could 
endure no more of this, and went to the door. I ’ll 
come again when you ’re in a more reasonable frame 
of mind! ” he exclaimed. 

' ‘ One moment, ’ ’ said Mr. Jerred. ‘ ‘ There is another 
matter I have not yet made quite plain to you. My 
visits to Alard Place this week were undertaken with 
the express purpose of speaking to you about it. Please 
shut the door.” 

Camoys shut it, and advanced into the room. He 
stood by the table, confronting the Rector, his hand- 
some and usually ingenuous face disfigured with anger. 


The Sacred Cup 189 

‘‘ I can guess what it is! But I ’ve told you I ’ve 
taken my solicitor’s advice about that! ” 

Now I implore you to be calm,” said Mr. Jerred. 
” In your present excited state I fear no admonition of 
mine would affect you; I will therefore postpone till a 
more fitting opportunity what I so much wish to do — 
urge upon you to try to realise the great wickedness of 
receiving the Blessed Sacrament unworthily. But I 
must be explicit as to the course I shall pursue in the 
event of your coming to the altar on Sunday, or on any 
occasion, before you have expressed contrition for the 
wrong you have done to others, and taken such steps 
as may be possible to make reparation to them.” Mr. 
Jerred paused, and the solemnity of his aspect made 
Camoys for a moment hold his breath. ” I shall with- 
hold from you the Body and Blood of our Lord.” 

Camoys wheeled round to the door again. 

” Very well — but I shall come all the same! ” He 
stopped, and forced an insolent laugh. A pretty 
scandal that will be with the Bishop at the service! ” 
He looked at the Rector, apparently expecting him to 
speak. ” He has promised to breakfast and lunch with 
Sir Ardenne Lyson on Sunday, and no doubt he will 
go to church.” 

'' I hope,” said Mr. Jerred, ‘‘ he will bring Sir Ar- 
denne Lyson with him. He does not give the villagers 
a very good example in attending divine worship.” 

But you can’t commit such an outrage on one of 
your parishioners in the presence of the Bishop! ” 


1 90 The Sacred Cup 

'' You seem,” said Mr. Jerred, ”to have considerable 
confidence in the Bishop.” 

He’s a fair-minded man ! Everybody knows that.” 

' ‘ And you think I am not ? ’ ’ 

'‘I can’t say you ’re behaving as if you were!” 
Camoys retorted. 

“ And yourself? ” said Mr. Jerred. ‘‘ As you are so 
strongly calling for fair-play, please let us have it all 
round. Do you think it fair that a simple country 
girl, with scarcely a friend in the world beside myself, 
should be corrupted by a 'gentleman,’ and by him left 
to her silent anguish^ her unhappy fate, and by his 
selfish lust brought to her grave in the flower of her 
youth? Do you think it fair that an aged village 
shop-keeper and her only son should be made to suffer 
so grievously for your act? And for once I speak 
directly of myself in these sorrows which you have 
brought upon us. I, too, am a poor man; I am not 
ashamed of being poor. But poverty is a terror to you 
— and do you think it fair that I, having assumed the 
responsibilty of taking your victim and your child into 
my home, without a syllable of gratitude from you 
until circumstances compelled you to speak — that I 
should now be subjected to this bullying tone from you 
because I will not allow you further to stain your soul 
or desecrate my holy office ? ’ ’ 

"Good-night!” said Camoys, and strode through 
the hall and out of the Rectory. 

He swung himself vehemently across the village. 


igi 


The Sacred Cup 

But his pace abated soon after he got on to the Alard 
road. For he had come to the decision that after the 
explosion in the Rectory it was necessary that he 
should see Margaret before going home. 

There was something that required to be put right 
with her. He was not clear as to what it was; no ex- 
planation could be given; there was not, indeed, any- 
thing wrong except the old mischief about Lottie 
Ollett, and that had seemed to him to be thrown 
finally into the background of his life by the winning 
of Margaret’s love and by their engagement. 

But if the Rector was going to reopen the whole 
matter and carry the war into Chantry House, he must 
be met instantly by a strengthened position there. 
Camoys had a good opinion of himself as a lover, and 
believed that he could break the force of Mr. Jerred’s 
opposition before it had been declared to Margaret. 
He was not perhaps so persuaded of this as he imagined, 
or he would not have been so impetuously eager to go 
to her. It may be that he did not actually believe the 
Rector would speak to her on the subject; the little 
parson was certainly an exasperating, interfering fool, 
but he was not a cad. The positive reason of Camoys’ 
wish to see Margaret at once was that by a renewed 
proof of her affection he might be able to bolster himself 
up in his defiance of the clerical power that had been 
awakened against him. This was an admission of 
weakness, but he was unaware of it, and he would not 
have owned up to it had it been put to him bluntly. 


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He would not admit that the Rector held the whip 
hand; he would not admit that a De Camoys could be 
overthrown by priestly influence. But some sort of 
trouble was being hatched at the Rectory, and he must 
be prepared to meet it. 

He got over a fence, crossed a field, and went round 
by a plantation to the lane on the west side of Chantry 
House. There was no moon, but the night was lumi- 
nous and still, a faint wind barely making the trees 
whisper. 

Camoys could not have explained why he did not 
care to enter Sir Ardenne Tyson’s grounds by the main 
gates; and he would have been angry and ashamed 
had any one caught him loitering in this dark lane, as 
though he could not make up his mind to go into the 
presence of the woman he loved. The wall here was 
lower than on the other sides, and he could see lights 
in the upper windows of the house, and hear a piano 
being played. The music sounded like an accompani- 
ment to the rustling of the leaves. 

A villager came along the lane, and Camoys walked 
briskly to meet him, as if to give him the idea that he 
had just come from Chantry House. He said “ Good- 
night” in a cheerful tone, and went to the end of the 
lane, where there was a cottage in which a child was 
crying. He waited a minute or two, and then went 
down the lane again. Everything was silent; yet the 
crying of that child in a labourer’s cottage seemed to be 
filling all the night. 


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He began to doubt the wisdom of his calling on Mar- 
garet now. The Rector was not a man to do things at 
a rush; it was very unlikely that he would go to 
Chantry House to-night. Perhaps it would be as well 
to go home, and the morning might show him another 
way of regarding Mr. Jerred's opposition. 

What, after all, could he have to say to Margaret 
that would more securely hold her to him ? All their 
conversation must be beside the question; he could not 
defend himself on general principles in such a fashion 
as would be at all plausible to her. In his turbulent 
state he might bring in Mr. Jerred’s name, and the 
visit to the Rectory to-night, and one thing might lead 
to another until too much had been said. 

He was feeling distrustful of himself, vaguely fearful, 
and he magnified Margaret’s cleverness and grew en- 
raged with his own stupidity, which he also magnified. 
She saw through one so quickly; a word would do it — 
the word that should give her the clue; and he remem- 
bered that her love for him had never been put to the 
test of what Mr. Jerred knew. 

What would she think if she were to read that letter ? 
If he were to forget to be cautious, and she were to 
take fright, their relations might on a sudden be utterly 
changed; and Camoys did not feel himself adequately 
equipped for such an emergency. 

He had never been deliberately watchful in his inter- 
course with her, and he did not want to begin on a plan 
of conscious evasion. Hitherto there had been no need 

*3 


194 


The Sacred Cup 

for it; his attitude of frankness towards her had been 
quite honest; it had not been an art but an instinct. 
He had been silent about this incident in his life be- 
cause it would have been unmanly, vulgar, and dis- 
honourable for him to speak of it to her or indeed to 
any one. It was an incident which a man should put 
away from him, which he should not think about, and 
Camoys was all for not thinking about it. Margaret, 
it was true, did think about it, but she was a woman, 
and women — women and parsons — always exaggerated 
these things, and the women generally took one 
another's part. 

As Camoys strolled to and fro in the lane he became 
more and more doubtful as to what Margaret might do 
in the event of the dead girl’s letter coming to her 
knowledge. She might to some extent take the Rec- 
tor’s view; and that way disaster lay. She had spoken 
pityingly of Lottie Ollett, and his honourable silence 
had become another sort of thing under her scorn of 
the unknown man. 

His thoughts grew fanciful, even fantastic, and he 
had one of his rare attacks of disordered nerves. But, 
having crossed from the Alard road for a definite pur- 
pose, he could not run away like a coward who had 
begun a thing and had not pluck enough to see it 
through. He looked up and down the lane, but no 
one was to be seen. That child must have gone to 
sleep; but its crying still seemed to be in the night. It 
was awful that a man could not take a simple country 


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girl in his arms without living through the conse- 
quences of it in these accumulating worries. 

He hoisted himself up on the wall, and leaped over on 
to a lawn. As he fell, or as he was falling — the vision 
was so swift he could not be sure — he got the impres- 
sion of a figure gliding over the lawn, like a great dog 
or other animal. It appeared inhuman; it swished 
in absolute silence across his eyes for an instant, and 
was gone. He stood awhile by the wall where he had 
fallen, but nothing moved. Yet he was certain that he 
had seen something; and that it had seen him, and 
that it had disappeared as he alighted on the ground. 

As he went slowly across the lawn, he gazed intently 
this way and that, but perceived no movement of any 
living thing, man or beast. On the south side of the 
lawn, where the lights of the house were obscured by a 
cluster of fig-trees, stood what appeared to be a huge 
black mound. This was a summer-house, and it was 
so densely covered with ivy that had Camo3^s not been 
familiar with it he would not have known where to 
look for the entrance. 

There was no door, only a small archway draped 
with ivy, and no window; so that the interior was in 
pitch darkness. As Camoys passed the doorway, he 
glanced in, and it seemed to him that he saw some one 
— some one or something — hiding inside. A queer sort 
of shiver ran over the back of his head and down his 
spine. He did not speak, and went on. 

He believed himself to be incapable of the sensation 


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of physical fear, and as he could not face the thought 
of it, the thought of cowardice, he turned back, and 
again peered into the summer-house — and now he was 
convinced that he saw a pair of eyes looking out at him 
from the blackness of the interior. They were human 
eyes; an animal would have been nearer to the ground; 
this invisible watcher was a person of full stature. 
Again that queer shivering seized Camoys, and for the 
first time in his life he knew what fear meant — knew 
that Fear is an actual thing, a living reality in the 
house of life, a spiritual embodiment that may be 
brought into action within ourselves by a mysterious 
objective presence. The mystery of it in the young 
man’s inner self was that it seemed to be connected in 
some way with Tottie Ollett and Mr. Jerred; not 
directly with Margaret; not directly even with little 
David. He turned suddenly from the black doorway, 
and walked rapidly towards the fig-trees. A footpath 
ran through them, leading to a wider path before 
Chantry House. But he did not go up to the house. 
The music was still sounding from an open window; 
and it was now a discord of broken cries, and child 
sobs, and terrors of the air. The wider path led to a 
side gate which opened on to the lane. . . . 

Camoys had reached Alard Place before Douglas 
Shulmere came forth from the darkness of the summer- 
house. 


CHAPTER XXV 


The next day, Saturday, Mr. Jerred was feeling 
rather homeless. His agitating talk with Camoys had 
given him a restless night, and in the morning Mrs. 
Verdley, having heard from Miss Tyson that the 
Bishop was coming, began to turn the Rectory upside 
down, and gave Mr. Jerred no peace till she got him 
out of his study. 

‘‘What are you going to do with it?'’ he asked 
nervously. 

“ Make it fit for the Bishop to sit down in! " 

“ But I have no reason to suppose that he will call 
at the Rectory." 

“If he does n't he 's a humbug," she answered, 
“ and not a Bishop worth his salt. Besides, I want to 
have a look at him. I should like to have a talk with 
him for ten minutes before the kitchen fire with little 
David in my arms." 

“ Oh, Mrs. Verdley — even if he should come — you 
cannot invite his lordship into the kitchen! " 

“ You leave it to me, sir; I 've never disgraced you 
yet, and it 's too late to begin. All I want is the 
Rectory to myself for a few hours. I 'm giving Mrs. 
197 


198 The Sacred Cup 

Potter half-a-crown and beer and dinner to help 
me.’’ 

Mr. Jerred gazed apprehensively about his stud3\ 

“ Mrs. Potter,” he said, ” is an extremely vigorous 
woman. I once saw her put quite a large boy across 
her knee and make him call loudly because he had 
thrown a stone at her bee-hive.” 

So the Rector gathered up his papers and books, 
politely but firmly apologising for not requiring Mrs. 
Verdley’s assistance, and then he went out and betook 
himself to Vallum wood, there meditating, not on a 
sermon to be preached before the Bishop — he simply 
could not do it, and was going to ask Arnold Karnes 
to come to his rescue — but on another earnest appeal 
he had resolved to make to Camoys. He would think 
over the main points in quietness, and return home 
and write it all down after Mrs. Verdley and Mrs. 
Potter had revolutionised his study. 

It was a mild, sunny morning, and having had so 
bad a night he soon became drowsy in the scented 
woodland hush. He sat on the mossy stump of a tree, 
hearing no disturbing sound; but nothing new to say 
to Camoys occurred to him. A foxglove growing 
among fern by his side interested him more than 
ecclesiastical discipline, and a ladybird resting on his 
hand was for the moment more beautiful and wonder- 
ful to him than mitral pomp and power. 

He was sitting here in the delicious dreaminess which 
brings repose if not thought, when he heard the peculiar 


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softened noise of footsteps on dead leaves, and on look- 
ing round he saw Douglas Shulmere coming towards 
him. He stood up, smiled, and gave the outcast his 
hand. Never before had he been so curiously impressed 
by the smallness of Shulmere’ s hand. It was like a 
girl’s ; more fragile, indeed, than Miss Lyson’s, and in 
its grasp much less decisive than Mrs. Verdley’s. 

And how are you getting on, Douglas? ” 

‘‘ Oh, as usual. Nothing doing.” 

I have been trying to find — wishing to speak to 
you for some days.” 

Yes ; so Floretta said.” 

‘‘ Where are you going now ? ” 

Nowhere in particular.” 

I do wish, Douglas,” Mr. Jerred said with kind- 
ness, ‘‘you would endeavour to — to go somewhere. 
If you had a definite object in life, my dear fellow, it 
would do you a great deal of good, and prevent you 
from brooding on other things, especially on things of 
the past.” 

They strolled on together, keeping to a by-path — 
there was generally some one on the main road through 
the wood — and the Rector wormed his way into Shul- 
mere’ s confidence so far as to get him to speak of Mr. 
Camoys and Lottie Ollett. No purpose could have 
been served by ignoring the cause of his monomaniacal 
possession, and there was no limit to Mr. Jerred’s 
courage when he was trying to get face to face with an 
unhappy soul. But Shulmere remained self-centred. 


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secretive, and disclosed merely the fringe of his dark 
torment. He was never servile in manner, and had 
occasionally treated the Rector with an indifference 
bordering on rudeness; so that his subdued and re- 
spectful tone now misled Mr. Jerred, who to his ap- 
parently casual question, '' You will be taking care of 
Lottie’s letter? ” replied: Oh, yes; it would be very 
unfortunate to let it get lost. I always carry it about 
with me”; and as he said this Mr. Jerred pressed his 
hand over the breast-pocket of his coat. 

He continued to talk seriously, not only as parish 
priest, but as man to man, sinner to sinner; Shulmere, 
however, had fallen on an absolute silence. And then 
Margaret Lyson was seen on the main path, a basket 
covered with a napkin on her arm, and as she stopped, 
looking down at them, the Rector said: ” Good morn- 
ing, Douglas. Do come and see me.” 

Shulmere’ s lips moved, but only as though they were 
parched and he was moistening them. He bowed — 
a bow, so it seemed to Mr. Jerred, naturally graceful 
yet pathetically incongruous — and went away, soon 
being out of sight in the undergrowths. 

'' Will he never do anything ? ” Margaret said. “ I 
have seen him several times of late as I have passed 
through the wood. He seems to haunt it now, and I 
suppose this is better than taking to the highways, 
where there is so little but mischief for idle hands to 
do. It must be dreadful for a man to think the world 
is too strong for him, and its battles not worth fighting. 


201 


The Sacred Cup 

I am going to see Mrs, Hoddinott’s eldest daughter; 
she has a houseful of children, and needs special nour- 
ishment j ust now. How she manages to keep her home 
so comfortable and clean, and her children — there are 
six already — and her self and her husband in the com- 
mon necessaries of life on seventeen shillings a week — 
Margaret sighed. Is n’t it a miracle? and they all 
look so well. And we sometimes spend a great deal 
more on a single dinner than all those eight have 
for food and clothes and house-room for a whole 
week.” 

” If you did n’t think of that,” said Mr. Jerred, 
” you would suffer.” 

” But many people don’t think of such things, and 
they don’t appear to suffer — do they ? ” 

” Ah, yes, yes; none the less because they may not 
realise it.” 

He had a great tenderness in his heart towards her 
to-day, a tenderness touched with pain, but the pain 
was diminished by his knowledge of her nobility of 
nature. If, in obedience to the call he could not, dare 
not, resist, he should be the means of bringing upon 
her the deepest grief of her life, he felt sure she would 
try to think the best of him; and she had in herself the 
well-spring of consolation which no mortal could give, 
and none could take away. He longed to spare her. 
He could have knelt at her feet, not to plead for her 
forgiveness, but to show his pity for her. In all his 
ministerial career he had never been so humbled in the 


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dust by the sense of his own unworthiness to be the in- 
strument of divine authority. 

I called at the Rectory/^ Margaret said smiling, 

as I came along, but Mrs. Verdley was up in arms 
for a tremendous attack on your peace of mind, and I 
did not stay. I wish you would come and lunch with 
us to-day, Mr. Jerred. Please say yes! 

‘‘ Thank you very much. Miss Tyson, but I told Mrs. 
Verdley that luncheon would do nicely in the kitchen 
to-day; and she might think I was offended or getting 
proud if I did not go home.’’ 

“ Well, you will come to-morrow and take luncheon 
with the Bishop ? ” 

Oh no, no — thank you — no, no! ” Mr. Jerred said, 
holding up his hands in dismay. And then the humour 
of it made his face shine. ‘‘ Why, if I were there the 
Bishop might think you were trying to ‘nobble ’ him.” 

“ I should like to ask Mr. Karnes also,” said Mar- 
garet. 

“ Please don’t,” Mr. Jerred appealed to her. “ I am 
sure we should both be exceedingly miserable. Yes, 
that would make you smile; and Mr. Karnes really 
does not stand in very great awe of the Bishop — but 
— he might inadvertently let fall certain remarks which 
I have — which would not be helpful to his lordship’s 
appetite.” 

Margaret changed her basket from one arm to the 
other, prettily declining to allow the Rector to carry it 
— “in case you should be inquisitive, and peep in. 


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The Sacred Cup 

There is a bottle of the wine,” she confessed, ‘‘ which 
3^ou say makes you feel so worldly. But if you don’t 

care to lunch with the Bishop ” 

Oh, I hope I did n’t put it in that way.” 

Well, won’t it be a still more severe ordeal for you 
to preach before him, if he should go to church, as he 
is almost sure to do ? ” 

“ I have been pondering on that,” said Mr. Jerred, 
‘‘ and I am afraid I should very feebly acquit myself; 
so I am going to ask Mr. Karnes to come over and 
rescue me. I must tell him to be very cautious in 
what he says. He does rather take one’s breath away 
sometimes when he is in the pulpit.” 

I think that is the right place to do it,” Margaret 
observed. 

'' Yes. Well — doubtless the presence of his lordship 
will act as a restraining influence.” 

” I hope it won’t,” said Margaret. 

” Oh, Miss Tyson, if Mr. Karnes should let himself 
go, and be at his best — I mean at his worst — no, just 
himself, with all his daring way of blurting out exactly 
what he believes ” 

” I hope he will,” said Margaret. 

mUvSt warn him,” repeated Mr. Jerred. He 
made me feel very hot indeed once, when I happened 
to glance at Mrs. Tewknor during his sermon on the 
remarkable text, ‘ Two years before the earthquake.’ ” 

Margaret stopped, and gazed upward through the 
wood; she was laughing to herself. 


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“ Mrs. Lewknor deserves to be preached at for bother- 
ing me to be married in ‘grand style ’ in the cathedral. 
She says she is ‘ dying ’ to see me ‘ robed in satin 
duchesse before the high altar * — she might have added, 
with canons to right of me and canons to left of me, 
and a bishop and dean in front — but I am not going 
to wear satin duchesse, and I am not going to be mar- 
ried in Mrs. I^ewknor's ‘grand style.' " Margaret put 
the tips of her fingers under the Rector’s arm; always 
when she did this he had a strange impulse to press 
her hand gently to his side, and this morning the im- 
pulse was stronger than ever upon him. “ The date 
has been fixed: three weeks from next Tuesday. And 
I want you, Mr. Jerred," she added in the gracious 
whisper of her lovely secret, “ to ‘ call * me in church, 
just like all my kind, simple friends here — and I also 
want you to marry us, if you have no objection.” 

“ God bless you, my dear,” he murmured. 

She gave his arm an affectionate pressure, and with- 
drew her hand. 

‘‘ Don't be alarmed,” she went on, “about what Mr. 
Karnes may say to-morrow. Have you ever preached 
before a bishop, Mr. Jerred ? ” 

“ Not to my knowledge. But I may have preached 
before numerous curates who have dreamed of bishop- 
rics. Arnold will come if I ask him.” 

“ Do, then, please. I have often wished that the 
Bishop should hear him, and is he so very sensitive? ” 
“ Mr. Karnes?” 


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The Sacred Cup 

No, the Bishop. I know Mr. Karnes is. His so- 
called eccentricity is all on the surface; I am sure his 
nature is as susceptible as a child’s.” 

“ Yes, yes, indeed it is; and he is the most loyal- 
hearted and unselfish of men; I don’t know his equal. 
It is such a comfort in downcast moments just to hold 
his strong and loving hands. His preaching is com- 
paratively unimportant; it is himself that tells. When 
we were curates in the same town all the poor loved 
him, and he taught me how to gain their trust and 
good opinion. It is so also at Wivelscote; yet not 
every one can at once understand him. Those fearless 
and disinterested personalities, while they make the 
most devoted friends, yet it seems they must make 
enemies too.” 

But surely Mr. Karnes has no enemies ? ” 

“ I fear I must grant he has had a few. But he has 
not made them. They have imagined themselves, so 
to say.” 

'‘How do you account,” said Margaret, "for Mr. 
Karnes’s having been so long neglected by the 
Church?” 

" Neglect? He does not complain.” 

" He ought to be the head of a parish, not a sub- 
ordinate in one. If the Bishop should hear him preach 
it might lead to his giving him preferment. It would 
be better for them to meet at luncheon, but I won’t ask 
Mr. Karnes after what you have said. Father says it 
would not do for me to give the Bishop a reminder; 


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The Sacred Cup 

but I intend to tell him what you are doing for us, 
and that should prevent him from troubling you any 
more about the child/’ 

They had reached the end of the path, and the cot- 
tage to which Margaret was going being only a short 
distance away she went on to it alone. 

Mr. Jerred wandered back into the wood. He was 
not making very rapid progress with the notes of his 
final appeal to Camoys. He had not jotted anything 
down yet, and his mind was a blank. His eyes were 
tired, and drowsiness was overtaking him. 

He came to a small cleared space, covered with moss 
and stunted grass, from which the sun was just glid- 
ing; and as it seemed so warm and secluded here he 
lay down to rest, taking off his hat and folding it on a 
stone for his pillow. He gradually forgot his troubles 
in dreamless sleep — Douglas Shulmere peering through 
the surrounding undergrowths, watching him from the 
moment he stretched himself on the dry ground. Shul- 
mere particularly noticed that he lay on his right side; 
this meant that his breast-pocket was unprotected. 

As the awkwardness of Mr. Jerred’ s pillow made him 
keep his chin down on his chest, he began presently to 
breathe heavily. Shulmere crept out on to the cleared 
space, and stood looking at him. He was ready to say, 
had the sleeping man awoke, ‘‘ Won’t you catch cold, 
sir, lying there? ” 

Shulmere had the cunning of the weak; any crime 
he would do would be approached circuitously; he 


207 


The Sacred Cup 

would take no heroic risks, and he did not know that 
feebleness is often its own surest trap. He saw now 
the Rector’s coat was unbuttoned; he saw, too, the 
outline of the packet of letters in his pocket. He re- 
mained motionless some four yards from him, and then 
took a couple of steps forward. 

“ Mr. Jerred ” 

The whisper was almost inaudible; had Mr. Jerred 
been awake he could not have heard it. Shulmere 
drew nearer to him, and again uttered his name, this 
time a little more loudly. Still he gave no sign. 
Shulmere moved closer, and said, “Won’t you catch 
cold? ” but the heavy breathing continued. And 
now he went down on one knee behind him, and 
looked into his face. 

“ Are you asleep, Mr. Jerred ? ” 

Shulmere thought he asked the question, but this 
was purely imaginary, for no sound had come from 
his lips. 

He waited awhile, fancying strange noises in the 
wood. The sun had gone over the trees. It seemed 
as though night was beginning to fall at noonday. 

His left hand swayed slowly over the Rector’s shoul- 
der — then over his face — the fingers being turned in 
till their tips touched his palm. He took hold very 
carefully of the lapel of Mr. Jerred’ s coat, and drew it 
back, exposing the pocket, a line of envelope showing 
from it. 

He paused again; and the distant human stir in the 


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The Sacred Cup 

wood became an outcry, and the thicket all round was 
full of unseen eyes. Had Shulmere hesitated any 
longer he would have screamed out from nervous 
terror. He slipped his second finger and thumb into 
Mr. Jerred’s pocket, and pulled out the letters. The 
instant he held them in his hand he was seized with a 
violent trembling, and let them fall to the ground. 
He did not at once look at them as they lay there, but 
listened in abject fright to the thunderous uproar now 
all through and through the wood. He picked up the 
letters, and went swiftly across the cleared space, but 
it seemed to him that if he were to enter the under- 
growths he would immediately be captured. 

He searched among the letters, and found Tottie 
Ollett’s. The only words he read were ‘‘Dear Flo- 
retta ’’ ; this gave him courage; it belonged to his sister, 
and he had a certain right to it, and was not behaving 
so dishonourably after all. 

He returned on tiptoe to Mr. Jerred, intending to 
put back the other letters into his pocket, but as he 
knelt down, they slipped from his hand across the 
sleeper’s chest — and Shulmere panic-stricken sprang 
up and ran away. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Whkn Mr. Jerred awoke his first impression was 
that some one had spoken to him. He sat up, but no 
one was to be seen. He heard sounds as of decayed 
twigs being trodden upon. 

He saw his letters scattered on the ground, but this 
did not at once alarm him, as he concluded they had 
rolled out of his pocket while he slept. Then he 
noticed that two or three of them had been taken from 
their envelopes, and hastily folded again in disorder. 
He gathered them up, and discovered that Eottie 
Ollett’s letter was missing. He felt in his pockets; ex- 
amined all the letters thoroughly; looked about on the 
ground. No; it was no longer in his possession. It 
had been stolen. Then he heard footsteps, and, on 
going close to the undergrowths and peering through, 
he saw Gilbert Camoys hurrying up towards the main 
path. 

Mr. Jerred, in a gloomy state of mind in which with- 
out absolute proof he felt bound to believe the worst, 
followed him, but did not call. He would hardly have 
charged Camoys with the theft had he overtaken him; 
at most he would have delicately questioned him, 

<4 209 


210 


The Sacred Cup 

The young man was soon out of sight; and Mr. 
Jerred went home. 

He found Arnold Karnes at the Rectory door in ani- 
mated conversation with Mrs. Verdley — a frenzied- 
looking woman — and taking his arm said: ‘‘ I am so 
glad you ’ve come; there is something I must tell you, 
though I ought not — it is very shabby and unkind of 
me to speak of it to you, but I can't keep it to myself." 

They turned into the garden, making for the green 
bench; Mr. Jerred, apologising again for his selfish 
weakness, telling Karnes of the loss of lyOttie’s letter. 

" If I had suspected any one else of course I should 
not have hesitated to tell you — and I am not asking 
your advice, Arnold; I don't forget. . . . But, 

you see, it must have been Camoys. He was so eager 
to get the letter from me last night; I suppose he 
thought its destruction would silence me and make 
him secure. But it would not — it will not; I have put 
my hand to the plough, and must go on, now more 
resolutely than ever. I won't say anything to Miss 
Tyson about what has occurred in the wood, or to any 
one but you, but how wickedly foolish he must be to 
think he can defeat me by such methods — for he has 
made it still more impossible for me to give him the 
Holy Communion to-morrow." 

“ Is there no one else," Karnes asked, ‘‘ you have 
reason to suspect ? " 

“ No, Arnold; who could there be? I saw Douglas 
Shulmere " 


21 I 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Ah! and what had he to say for himself? ’’ 

‘‘Very little; I can’t distinctly remember, but he 
was quite peaceable, and made no sort of threat, or 
even request. Camoys displayed an intense dislike of 
me last night, and shouted scornfully, but I don’t wish 
to be unfair to him. He is very unhappily circum- 
stanced, and his moral sense must have been over- 
thrown by what he has done, and his long concealment 
of it, and now discovery on the eve of his marriage — 
and the fear that it may come to the knowledge of Miss 
Lyson.” 

“ But did n’t you make a copy of the letter ? ” 

“ Yes, and I gave it to him. He tore it in small 
pieces — he asked me if he might destroy it — and put 
them in his pocket; he was most careful not to leave a 
scrap on the floor. Why, Arnold, did you exclaim so 
suggestively when I said I had seen'^hulmere ? ” 

‘ ‘ It struck me that he might like to get hold of the 
letter.” 

” But why ? What use could it be to him ? ” 

” He ’s not incapable of blackmail.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, but if he has any such horrible intention he 
could do it from what his sister has told him. Besides, 
he went away, and after he was gone I had a long talk 
with Miss lyyson. Arnold, she asked me to marry 
them ! . . . And now let us say no more about the 

letter ; we don’t really know for certain, and my 
grounds for repelling Camoys were overwhelmingly 
strong before this happened. The Bishop is to be at 


2 I 2 


The Sacred Cup 

Chantry House to-morrow, and as he is nearly sure to 
attend the morning service with the Lysons — he will no 
doubt take his Communion at an early celebration in 
the cathedral — I do want you to come over and give 
the sermon, Arnold. You will — please promise,” Mr. 
Jerred pleaded. 

The Tysons* pew, as you know, is just under the 
pulpit, and I feel that if I were to get into it, and see 

the Bishop down there, with his stern mouth ’ ’ 

” He *11 bring it with him to Tamberfield,** said 
Karnes. 

‘‘ Yes, I feel certain he will,** said Mr. Jerred. '' I 
should cut such a sorry figure before him. And that 
is not all — I should break down, and one does n*t like 
to make an exhibition of oneself among one*s own 
people. Then, if Camoys should be present — and I 
fear he is recklessi^y bent on carrying out his threat of 
attempting to defy me in my own church — he had 
arranged, you know, with Miss Tyson to communicate 
on this particular Sunday before I had it out with him 
— and if he is there, and the Bishop is there, well, in- 
deed the pulpit won*t be the right place for me. But 
you have courage for anything, Arnold.** 

‘ ‘ Why not ask the Bishop to preach ? * * 

‘'Oh, I could n*t do that; I am not supposed to know 
that he is coming. It is to be a private visit, and I 
have had no official intimation of it. Besides, I am 
not in his good books just now.** 

“ Is he playing a trick on you ? ** 


213 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Oh, I don’t think so. But I should n’t wonder,” 
said Mr. Jerred smiling, ” if Miss I^yson had induced 
her father to invite him under — under some other 
pretence. ’ ’ 

“But Mrs. Verdley tells me she is turning the 
Rectory inside out in honour of the Bishop’s 
visit.” 

” Oh, that is only another of Mrs. Verdley’s rapid 
conclusions. I have no reason to expect him at the 
Rectory. I should be in mortal fright lest Mrs. Verd- 
ley should put the baby into his arms and order him to 
admire it! But don’t beat about the bush so, Arnold; 
say you will come? ” 

” All right then.” 

” Ah, you ’ve taken such a load off my mind! ” 

” But I shall have to clear out immediately after I ’ve 
earned the guinea I ’m not going to get, as I have an 
engagement for one o’clock at Wivelscote.” 

” Yes ; you can go out with the choir. We have n’t 
yet attained to your grandeur of a choral celebration. 
Mr. Guthrie and Roland Margesson usually stay to 
lead us in the Communion hymn; they have such 
reverent, pulling-up voices. Then I shall be left to go 
on alone.” 

‘ ‘ What if the Bishop should take it into his head to 
celebrate? ” 

” I should then do nothing, Arnold — not on this occa- 
sion at least. But that is unlikely, I think, unless 
Miss Lyson, who is so persuasive, were to ask him to 


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— and that, again, is improbable. No; I shall have to 
go through with it/* 

‘‘ I wish the trouble had n’t reached this crisis, Jim. 
For it is a momentous step you are contemplating. 
I ’ve never done it myself, and I trust I may never be 
called upon to do it. You give me credit for cour- 
age, but I should shrink from that. Preaching before 
the Upper House of Convocation would be holiday 
duty in comparison.” 

” I cannot go back,” said Mr. Jerred earnestly. 
” The poor peasant girl who was my servant and my 
friend — the mother of his child, whose innocence he 
blighted, whom he ruined and deserted — she speaks to 
me from the grave. I am not her avenger; he is call- 
ing down God’s wrath upon himself; and I will not 
suffer him in his arrogant unrepentance to commit this 
crowning outrage upon our faith.” 

Karnes sighed deeply. He could not go further into 
this. He said he would have to be off; and they talked 
more cheerfully as they went out on to the road. 

” You would n’t, I suppose,” said Mr. Jerred, ‘‘care 
to cancel your engagement, and stay and take luncheon 
with the Bishop at Chantry House ? ” 

“ Are you going? ” 

“Oh, no.” 

“ Nor I — even if I were invited. Wait till he gets a 
specimen of my pulpit style! ” 

“ I do hope,” Mr. Jerred urged, “ you won’t be too 
— too earthquakey.” 


2X5 


The Sacred Cup 

'' But this is to be the experience of a lifetime, Jim. 
I may never again in this world have such another 
chance of tilting a mitre over the episcopal left ear! 
‘‘Arnold! 

Karnes laughed as he bounded away. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

Mr. JkrrBd was up earlier than usual on this Sun- 
day, and was grateful for the beautiful morning. The 
air was bright and sweet, and the breeze had a tender 
southern intimacy. The sunlight was a clean golden 
radiance. Mr. Jerred, before the villagers were out of 
doors, gathered from his garden white flowers for the 
Communion table. He gathered so many he had to 
hold them across his arm, like a child in flowing white. 

He had been reading in his room the passage in St. 
John’s Gospel, Eet not your heart be troubled,” and 
it was with him in the garden. He made no resolve 
with himself, as one saying, ‘ ‘ I shall be very quiet this 
morning ” ; he lived it in humble obedience. That was 
when he felt self-possessed for destiny, unshakably still 
under the divine will. There must be no thought of 
personal gain; the eye must be single, and full of light. 
It is only thus that the soul shall embark calmly upon 
hard enterprises. 

Little David in his cot was scarcely more child- 
hearted than the Rector in his garden on this fair 
morning. He was sorry on ordinary occasions to take 
flowers away from the earth, having a fancy that they 
216 


217 


The Sacred Cup 

might feel it, if one’s heart were pure enough to under- 
stand. But these were for the service of the sanctuary; 
they would be close to the Heavenly Presence. They 
might know, Mr. Jerred had no difficulty in believing 
the lovely story of the saint offering the Holy Sacrifice 
with birds and beasts and flowers bowing down in 
adoration. He murmured to himself the lines of the 
parson of Bemerton: 

I got me flowers to strew Thy way ; 

I got me boughs off many a tree ; 

But Thou wast up by break of day, 

And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee. 

He had not broken his fast, and did not now go 
again into the Rectory, but carried the flowers to the 
church. 

The village as he passed through it was very tranquil, 
too. The gray smoke of wood fires was coming up out 
of the cottage chimneys, and some of the doors were 
open. Floretta Shulmere had drawn up her window- 
blind, but the blind of her brother’s bedroom was still 
down, and Mr. Jerred felt a yearning desire to go 
in and say, “ Douglas, why don’t you get up, too, and 
come with us to church ? You would be so much 
happier there.” 

Darker smoke was rising from the red roofs of 
Chantry House. And that would be Alard over there, 
the home of a race once almost royal in its power, but 
now come to the defiance in which no man may stand. 


2I8 


The Sacred Cup 

The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but His word 
shall endure forever. 

A little girl, returning from a farm with milk, ran on 
with glad cries to meet the Rector before he got to the 
churchyard gate, and as he put his hand round her 
shoulders she knew she was being blessed, though he 
did not speak, and she laughed with her face hidden in 
his side. Her happiness was given to Mr. Jerred; he 
was always having the most perfect things given to 
him for nothing. He gave her a white rose, and said, 
^‘Oh, but wait, Lizzie,’’ and gave her two more, and 
then with smiling gravity he asked her, ' ‘ And now I 
wonder if there is any meaning you think of in these 
three white flowers? ” She answered, You want me 
to be like them.” It was not quite the symbol in his 
mind, but he said, ” Yes, I want you to be always 
good, and gentle, and free from wrong.” 

She ran on, and he went up to the church, took the 
key from its hiding-place in the ivy on the old tower, 
and let himself in. Every morning, Sundays and 
week-days, he was the first to enter the church, and 
often the last to leave it. He knelt awhile by the font, 
still holding the flowers in his arm, as if he were offer- 
ing a child there; and then he entered the vestry and 
opened the door by which the choristers came in, so as 
to let a current of fresh air pass through the church. 

He looked outside; a churchyard was to him such a 
solemn, living place, and the song of the Resurrection 
morning seemed to be ringing over it now. And that 


219 


The Sacred Cup 

was Camoys’ mother’s grave ; and that, lyOttie’s, her 
favourite pansies blossoming upon it. He had planted 
them himself ; the pansy was also his favourite flower. 

He crossed over to it, and put a lily at her feet. 

On returning to the vestry he filled with water the 
brass vases Margaret Lyson had given to the church, 
and having arranged the flowers in them he carried 
them out one by one and put them on the altar. As he 
was putting the last one in its place he noticed among 
the white flowers a small pansy of virginal blue with a 
golden heart. It was the only touch of floral colour, 
and so tiny that one had to look close in to see it. Mr. 
Jerred left it where it was. 

He returned to the Rectory, and withdrew to his 
room, remaining there until the first bell rang; this 
seclusion being his custom when Holy Communion was 
to follow matins. 

As he came downstairs, Mrs. Verdley, arrayed for 
church in her glove-like black satin, and wearing a 
bonnet which made Mr. Jerred wonder if it could be so 
heavy as it looked, was waiting for him in the hall, 
brush in hand. She said it was a shame he had n’t 
got better clothes to show the Bishop — what would he 
think when he saw such a shabby coat on a clergy- 
man’s back ? — and she fell to brushing him with re- 
lentless energy. 

‘‘ Not fit for a pauper undertaker,” she cried. I 
do believe I look a lot more like a Rector-ess than you 
do a Rector.” 


220 


The Sacred Cup 

He submitted patiently to her attack on his shoulders, 
arms, and chest, and it was only when she dragged him 
to a chair, sat on it, and began to “ scrub” his coat- 
tails, that he mildly protested, ” Oh, Mrs. Verdley, 
surely I don’t need so much polishing”; to which she 
promptly replied, I ’d show them how to polish you 
up if only I was your wife for six months! ” 

Mr. Jerred had heard this threat before under various 
circumstances of provocation, but had never answered 
it. 

” I hope,” he now said, a smile in his eyes, ‘‘ you 
have n’t done anything to deserve such a sad fate as 
that, Mrs. Verdley.” 

Her rosy face was brimming over with mirth as she 
opened the door for him. 

“Now mind, sir, you don’t let that old Bishop get 
the soft side of you. If he ’s coming to the Rectory 
for tea he won’t see anything here to disgrace him — 
and if he wants to make you a dean or something tell 
him from me I ’m going to be your housekeeper wher- 
ever you are.” 

“ I don’t think,” said Mr. Jerred from the doorstep, 
“ I shall be tempted to leave Lamberfield for anything 
less than an Archbishopric.” 

He met several villagers on his way back to the 
church. We are going, he thought, to have a good 
congregation. He walked half the distance with old 
Mrs. Maybin, listening attentively to everything she 
said about her ailments, the fine new armchair her son- 


221 


The Sacred Cup 

in-law had made for her, the nasty blow they ’d given 
her grandson at cricket, and other domestic affairs. 

Had Mrs. Lewknor been his companion he might 
not have heard all she said, and he would have forgot- 
ten that she was Gilbert Camoys' aunt, for that young 
man had become almost impersonal to Mr. Jerred. He 
could not think of him just now apart from his duty, 
and that being spiritual was greater than any person- 
ality, at least until the personality should come before 
him in spiritual significance. 

Villagers were lingering in the churchyard, and 
chattering choir boys were grouped in the shade of the 
old yew tree outside the vestr}^ door. They saluted the 
Rector, and he took off his hat to them. On entering 
the vestry he unlocked the press containing the chalice 
and paten and the unconsecrated elements, and carried 
them into the church, putting the chalice and paten on 
the altar and covering them with a white linen napkin. 
The sexton’s wife had spread a white cloth on the holy 
table. 

He held open the outer door of the vestry, and the 
choir boys trooped in. The men of the choir came, 
and there was mysterious whispering during the put- 
ting on of surplices; Abel Hurdis had heard that the 
Bishop was in the village, and the great news was 
agitating the singers. He might come to church, and 
select one of them for the cathedral choir, where you 
did nothing else but sing, and got big wages for it. 

Mr. Jerred did not listen; nor had he noticed Arnold’s 


222 


The Sacred Cup 

absence. The quietness upon him was deeper than 
when he had come to put flowers on the altar. He 
moved as one who lived in another world. Mr. Guthrie, 
the schoolmaster, wished to ask him if it was true the 
Bishop was coming, but there was something in the 
Rector's manner that kept him silent. 

At last, a minute before the bell stopped, Karnes 
arrived, and Mr. Jerred looked at him with absent- 
minded surprise. Then he gave a sigh of relief, and 
smiled, but did not speak. Not even ^‘good-morning " 
was exchanged by the old friends. 

Karnes had forgotten his surplice, and put on an old 
one of Mr. Jerred's; it was absurdly short, not reach- 
ing to his knees, so he took it off and put on a worn- 
out black cassock, which came down only an inch 
below his knees. He slipped the short surplice over 
it, and then presented so odd a figure that the choir 
boys giggled. 

“ Ssh, ssh," whispered the Rector, gravely shaking 
his head. 

They all knelt down, Mr. Jerred said a prayer, and 
the choir moved out into the chancel; Mr. Jerred, who 
came last, shutting the vestry door behind him. 

He had an impression that a great many people were 
in the church, but he did not recognise any one in 
particular. 

It was only when he turned to the congregation to 
say the opening sentence that he saw the Bishop, a 
majestic presence standing between Margaret Tyson 


223 


The Sacred Cup 

and her father. He saw also Camoys and Mrs. Lewk- 
nor, and Floretta Shulmere in her corner under the old 
organ loft — the organ now being in the chancel. 

Margaret discerned a strange note of pathos, as 
though it somehow carried an appeal to herself, in the 
Rector’s voice as he said, “ When the wicked man 
turneth away from his wickedness that he hath com- 
mitted, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he 
shall save his soul alive.” 

So the service went on; Mr. Jerred taking it all ex- 
cept the lessons, which were read by Arnold Karnes. 
Mrs. Lewknor really could not suppress a smile as that 
Wandering Jew of a curate stood up at the lectern in 
those ludicrous clothes. 

In Lamberfield church when there was a mid-day 
celebration the common but un rubrical custom was 
observed of joining part of the Eucharistic oflBce on to 
matins, and dismissing the congregation, all save the 
communicants, without the blessing after the prayer for 
the Church militant. The sermon was given in its 
right place after the Nicene Creed. 

Mr. Jerred, now seated on a low chair in the north 
corner of the sanctuary, did not catch Arnold’s text ; 
the sun’s rays were lying across the upper part of the 
altar, canopying it with mystic gold, and he could see 
among the white flowers the solitary pansy of virginal 
blue with the golden heart. 

Karnes, indeed, had no text. But he did not parade 
this omission as he had done in his first sermon at 


224 


The Sacred Cup 

Wivelscote. He began as though he was about to give 
his text, but went on, forgetting it. He was at first 
very subdued in manner and expression; never before 
had he preached so tamely to Mr. Jerred’s people. It 
seemed to Margaret he was not going to do himself 
justice, and she wondered if it could be the Bishop who 
was overawing this man with the piercing strong eyes 
and the face of one who had mastered the great secret 
of living nobly in the wilderness. 

Karnes saw Camoys, and it was not the prelate, but 
his dear old friend’s position, that filled him with awe 
and for a time held in leash the fiery spirit of his 
eloquence. 

He was nearing the end of his sermon when a fiash 
of his true self burst forth, as it seemed irresistibly. 

“ I have heard it said that we Christians are hardly 
used by the world. We ought to be, but we are not. 
Most of us take good care of that! ” 

His gestures were swift, vehement, and Margaret 
listened intently; it was coming now, she hoped, eager 
that the Bishop should be impressed by Mr. Karnes’s 
earnestness and power. 

‘ ‘ When we accept absolutely the Christian ideal the 
paradox of paradoxes happens — it is impossible for us 
to be understood and it is impossible for us to be mis- 
understood. All men know what we mean, but all men 
do not know our secret. To some there comes a tri- 
umph in which there can be no misunderstanding. 
There are Christian souls so transparently sincere, so 


225 


The Sacred Cup 

radiantly, humbly happy, that not their fellow-crea- 
tures, but only the Devil himself could feel any bitter- 
ness against them. Don’t delude yourselves; the 
spurious Christian is very easily seen through. Some 
people fancy they are acting like Christians when they 
are merely self-willed, even self-righteous, perhaps 
even narrow-minded and spiteful. The meanness of 
Christian masqueraders is a black and grimy page in 
the history of human imposture. The most hateful 
thing on God’s earth is the Christian temper assumed 
for selfish ends. That, and not frank devilism — that, 
and not honest worldliness — this suave self-seeking 
under the Christian mask is the Enemy’s supreme 
mockery of Christ in the very bosom of His fold in 
these days.” 

Karnes let his long arms fall over the front of the 
pulpit, his chest sinking down on to the book-rest. 
Mrs. Eewknor thought it was high time his surplice 
was sent to the laundry; and the Bishop, letting his 
eyes pass over the preacher casually, noticed a rent in 
the sleeve of his cassock. 

” Now, don’t let us go on blinding ourselves by side 
issues. Don’t let us bother ourselves about ‘origins of 
life ’ and grown-up child’s play of that sort. We know 
very well the moment we lift up our gaze to the ulti- 
mate fact of all things — the fact of eternity — that a 
little piece of matter can never, never turn round upon 
itself and by any inherent power in itself explain how 
it came to be. We have the final explanation — ‘ And 

15 


226 


The Sacred Cup 

the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, 
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and 
man became a living soul. ^ Oh, the terrible and pa- 
thetic futility of this dust of the ground trying to ana- 
lyse in a laboratory the breath of the Almighty! ” 

The Bishop was beginning to be interested; Mar- 
garet’s heart was beating with happy pride; the worth 
of the man she so much admired would now be known 
in the episcopal palace, and he would no doubt be called 
out of obscurity. As Karnes stood upright he saw the 
rent in his cassock, and put his fingers into it, looking 
in with a kind of amused familiarity, making old Mrs. 
Hoddinott smile and Mrs. Verdley frown. Mr. Jerred 
was gazing at the lilies and roses on the altar. Camoys, 
very pale, appeared not to be noticing anything, or 
listening to the sermon. 

“ Satan is taking in our times too many of us Christ- 
ians up into an exceeding high mountain, and showing 
us all the kingdoms of this world, and he is giving us 
all these things, and we are falling down and worship- 
ping him. And we are saying, ‘ This will I do! I will 
pull down my barns and build greater, and there will 
I bestow all my fruits and my goods.’ And we at- 
tempt to silence the voices that say we are doing this 
— especially the voice of conscience. And we say to 
our soul, ‘ Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many 
years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.’ ” 

Karnes suddenly opened the huge Bible which bore 
an inscription in the handwriting of a De Camoys now 


227 


The Sacred Cup 

for a hundred years and more in his vault under the 
church. But he read nothing from the book, and as 
suddenly shut it. 

‘‘We are not left without light. The pure Christian 
temper is unmistakable. No power can stand against 
its influence. It is very rare, God help us! --so rare 
that we hold our breath when we see it. This is often 
in unexpected and incongruous places — ^^in a fashion- 
able drawing-room, or in a cottage ; in an ignorant 
Salvation Army lassie at a street corner, or in a scholar 
in a richly adorned church; in the triumphant contempt 
for the life of this world which sisters of mercy show 
every day; in a field, or in a workshop. I have seen 
it in the face of an earth-worn peasant; I have seen it 
in the face of a refined lady. I have seen it in the face 
of a servant girl; I have seen it in the face of a woman 
whose garments were spotted with the blood. It seems 
to be the weakest thing in the world, and yet it is the 
strongest. It seems to ask for nothing, to expect no- 
thing, and yet to have everything. It inherits the 
earth, and gives all its riches and glory away, receiving 
them back a thousandfold.’’ 

As the congregation stood up for the ascription Mar- 
garet glanced at the Bishop, but his face told no tale. 
She looked also at her father, and thought of Gilbert, 
hoping Mrs. I^ewknor had not let him go to sleep. 

Karnes returned to his seat, and after the offertory 
hymn and the prayer for the Church militant he 
went out with the choir. Mr. Guthrie and Roland 


228 


The Sacred Cup 

Margesson came back, having put off their surplices, 
and by this time only fourteen persons were in the 
church. Sir Ardenne Lyson had gone away. The 
sexton shut the door, and a profound silence fell upon 
the little church. 

Mr. Jerred began to read the exhortation. 

Camoys was kneeling beside his aunt, no one else 
being in their pew. His fingers, thrust into his fair 
hair, worked nervously, and his hot palms were pressed 
upon the sides of his head. 

Gilbert,’' Mrs. Lewknor whispered, “ don’t make 
your hair so untidy.” 

He did not remove his hands, but made an effort to 
keep them still. 

. . examine themselves^'' he heard Mr. Jerred 

say, '‘"‘before they presume to eat of that Breads and 
drink of that Cup, ' ' 

Camoys, lost in self-questioning as to the wisdom of 
his conduct in being here, caught only broken sen- 
tences. He suffered intensely at this moment, and 
despised himself, and hated his aunt for being a witness 
of his confusion. He was already feeling out of his 
depth. He noticed now that the Bishop was with 
Margaret. 

There should be sympathy with Camoys in this 
blunder he was making, a blunder begotten of limited 
religious perception. He was an average Englishman, 
holding as a matter of good form to the lifeless opinions 
into which he had been drilled in boyhood, and regard- 


The Sacred Cup 


229 


ing the clergy as a more or less ornamental supplement 
of the social system. He had never till now had the 
truth forced upon him that the Christian religion is a 
supernatural religion, and he had therefore found it 
difficult to realise that a timid man like the Rector, 
who personally gave himself no airs, held so tremen- 
dous a power for bringing him to book. 

. . so is the danger greats if we receive the same 

unworthily, ’ ' 

Canioys was in the throes of that peril now. To him 
it was not, indeed, a peril in itself, since it only vaguely 
appealed to him in its ghostly aspect; nor had he any 
actual, definite desire to act profanely; it was due, as 
he understood it, to Mr. Jerred's antagonism to his 
wish to do as Margaret had asked him. That was the 
main line of Camoys’ comprehension of it all. The 
motive which had led him to defy his parish priest was 
quite plain to him. There was another impulse, but 
this was beyond his intelligence — the strange perversion 
which in psychological crises makes a man do and say 
what he knows in his heart to be directly opposed to 
his own interests and his own peace. This subtle trick 
of conscience was partly revealed to him as Mr. Jerred 
read out from the altar step: 

“ For then we are guilty of the Body and Blood of 
Christ our Saviour ; we eat and drink our own dajyina- 
tion, . . B 

And, had it been possible, Camoys would have re- 
treated even now. But it was too late. He could not 


230 


The Sacred Cup 

make so cowardly a surrender in the presence of the wo- 
man who was to be his wife; and his unimaginative 
conception of manliness would not allow him to make 
a pretence of sudden illness. 

The exhortation was ended; then came the short 
exhortation, the confession, the absolution, the com- 
fortable words, and the preface. Camoys heard Roland 
Margesson’s expressive voice in the Trisagion. And 
then he knew that the prayer of humble approach was 
being said, but no phrase of it penetrated to his 
mind. 

Presently from out a solemn hush he heard the 
Rector say — ‘‘ Who, in the same night that He was be- 
trayed but Camoys did not take his hands from 

his face until there was a movement in the nave, and 
his aunt touched him on the shoulder, whispering. 

They are going up, Gilbert.'' 

He was not the last to reach the altar rails; Floretta 
vShulmere, with folded hands and downcast eyes, came 
behind him. He did not notice her. He did not dis- 
tinctly perceive any one as he knelt on the right of the 
Bishop; Floretta sinking down like a disembodied 
spirit beside him. She prayed for him and for her 
brother, and forgot to pray for herself. 

Mr. Jerred began to give the Sacrament. He stood 
before the Bishop, and Camoys heard him say in a low, 
deep murmur, ^'The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto 
everlasting life, . . . " 


231 


The Sacred Cup 

Then he passed Camoys, and bent down to Douglas 
Shulmere's sister. 

Camoys remained perfectly still, his hands clutching 
the altar rail. He was scarcely conscious of his sur- 
roundings. Those white flowers, with the sunlight 
upon them. . . . He felt no anger, only a sense 

of illimitable shame and humiliation and ruin. He 
had no lucid thought; he existed in the flaming ques- 
tion, Has Margaret seen ? 

Again Mr. Jerred stood before the Bishop; this time 
with the chalice. Again he passed Camoys, and gave 
the Sacred Cup to Floretta Shulmere. She uttered a 
low moan, and trembled so piteously the Rector stooped 
and held it to her lips. His eyes were full of tears. 

Mrs. Tewknor, who was kneeling beside Floretta, 
rose and left the chancel the moment she had received. 
Camoys followed her back to their pew, and as they 
went down on their knees, Gilbert,” she said in a 
whisper of horror, ^ ‘ what does this mean ? ’ * 

He made no reply; his hands were on his face. 

He heard Mr. Jerred saying, beseech Thee to 

accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing 
our merits, but pardoning our offences T 

And then the little flock were awed by hearing a sob 
in the voice of the priest at the altar. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


No one was asked to sit at table with the Bishop in 
Chantry House. 

For once, Margaret,” Sir Ardenne Lyson had said, 
‘Met us observe a distinguished exclusiveness. No 
Mrs. Lewknor, I beg of you ! And Mr. Camoys might 
not care to come without her. The Rector might not 
be in the way, but a great territorial prelate would 
scarcely expect to find an inconsiderable clergyman in- 
vited to meet him at luncheon. The Rectory child 
might be bandied across the table, and that would be 
unpleasant to you.” 

“ Not at all, father. And no Mr. Karnes?” 

“ No, no, if you please! He would disorganise all 
our digestion, and make the host of no importance in 
his own house.” 

” It would be very pretty and apostolic, I think,” 
said Margaret, “if we could ask all the villagers to 
have luncheon with the Bishop.” 

“ They would miss their pork and boiled cabbage,” 
Sir Ardenne Tyson observed. “ I am afraid, Margaret, 
if you ever make the discovery — you really have not yet 
made it — that you are a rich woman, you will very soon 
be a poor one.” 

232 


233 


The Sacred Cup 

Sir Ardenne Lyson had himself invented the 
luncheon, and during it he babbled his most graceful 
heathenism, the wines being exquisite. He was per- 
suaded his talk was brilliant, or at least very clever, 
and he was flattered by the Bishop’s attentive silence. 
They had known each other in younger days, but the 
Bishop left reminiscences to his host. He turned sud- 
denly two or three times to Margaret, as though to put 
some question to her, but merely made trivial remarks. 
She was perplexed by a constraint in his manner which 
had not been at all noticeable earlier in the day; and 
she was also somewhat annoyed with her father for 
making no mention of her engagement. The Bishop, 
however, had heard of it, and as the meal was ending 
he took advantage of an opportunity of congratulating 
her. 

“ I have not yet the pleasure,” he added, ” of know- 
ing Mr. Camoys.” 

” I think he knelt beside you at Hol}^ Communion,” 
she said. ” He is tall, and fair.” 

The Bishop rubbed his Angers on his napkin, and 
helped himself to more fruit. ” Yes, a young gentle- 
man was there. But one may not be closely observant 
on such an occasion.” 

” I was quite at the opposite end,” said Margaret, 
” beside our village grocer, but I saw Mr. Camoys go 
over where you were. Don’t you think Mr. Jerred 
conducts the service very impressively ? Those wonder- 
ful words mean so much as he says them. He was 


234 


The Sacred Cup 

overcome towards the end, and I felt so sorry for him. 
Indeed, from the emotion in his voice when he gave 
me the Sacrament I almost feared he would break 
down altogether. I have not known him to be so 
moved before/’ 

“Your presence, no doubt,” Sir Ardenne Lyson 
said to the Bishop, “ would overwhelm him.” 

“ I don’t see why it should,” his lordship remarked 
magnanimously. “ He appears to be a well-meaning 
man, but perhaps not very tactful.” 

“Surely you must be mistaken,” Margaret said, 
“ in thinking Mr. Jerred is lacking in tact. He is all 
that one understands by a Christian gentleman. I 
don’t think he has ever done or said a harsh or vulgar 
thing in Lamberfield — and is not deficiency in tact due 
to vulgarity of feeling ? ’ ’ 

“ I regret I have had experience,” said the Bishop, 
“of its arising from excess of zeal.” 

“ Oh, but would there not be a strain of vulgarity in 
the zeal?” 

“ Perhaps you are right. Miss I^yson.” 

“ Karnes has that strain,” said Sir Ardenne Lyson.” 

“ No, no, father. The sincere Christian type,” 
Margaret went on, “cannot, I suppose, avoid doing 
odd things. It has the purest originality and fresh- 
ness, and when it is combined with a dramatic mind it 
brings forth more surprises than genius. But it is 
never vulgar.” 

“The dramatic instinct, Margaret, is an egoistic 


The Sacred Cup 235 

instinct, and where there is limelight there must be 
self-assertion.” 

” Not necessarily, I think,” said the Bishop. 

“ No,” said Margaret. ” St. Paul, for instance, has 
the appearance of being egoistic, but he glorifies not 
himself. I am so anxious,” she continued to the 
Bishop, ” that you should know how much we appre- 
ciate Mr. Jerred. There is no one in the parish, I am 
sure, who does not love him. Some of the children 
are happier when they are with him than when they 
are with their own fathers. He takes us out of our- 
selves, because he lives out of himself. We are 
ashamed not to be able always to copy his example. 
When I feel I am drifting along in careless idle con- 
tent, do you know what I do ? I go about among our 
poor people, and make them speak of the Rector. It 
is then I feel how little I am doing, and how unselfish 
his life is.” 

” Quite so,” said the Bishop. ‘‘It is very satis- 
factory to know that there are a great many of these 
capital fellows up and down the diocese. By the way, 
the preacher is a stranger to me. Who is he ? ” 

Margaret told him, and added, “ He was not quite 
at his best this morning.” 

“ I imagine,” said the Bishop, “he is theoretically 
on the side of the ravens.” 

“They don’t bring him very much, I am afraid,” 
said Margaret smiling. 

“ Extremists always interest me,” said Sir Ardenne 


236 


The Sacred Cup 

Lyson, ‘‘in religion, literature, and art. They make 
me think of men trying to give themselves the happy 
dispatch in the last ditch because they can’t get any- 
body to cut off their heads. It is nicer to have the last 
ditch in an adjoining parish.” 

” I am so glad you have heard Mr. Karnes,” Mar- 
garet said to the Bishop. ” His light is being largely 
hidden, and it is often by accident that people of talent, 
having no influential friends, are brought into the 
open.” 

” Oh, Margaret, if Karnes’s light were under a 
bushel would he not be the first to give the bushel a 
kick, and shine forth ? ” 

The Bishop gave an approving nod. 

” But as a curate his opportunities must be restricted. 
Some incumbents suppress their curates as rigidly as a 
‘ star ’ actor suppresses his colleagues.” 

” That would be very reprehensible. Miss Tyson.” 

The Bishop uttered a platitude with such sonorous 
dignity that Margaret felt she had said something 
offensive. The Anglican clergy criticise their spiritual 
overseers freely enough to each other, but not so freely 
to the laity, and Margaret did not know that they said 
the Bishop was not too ready to give them the benefit 
of the doubt, and that when he put down his foot the}^ 
felt it. He would stand up for them collectively in 
public speeches, particular!}^ should a parliamentary 
measure affecting the Church be under discussion, but 
he was rarely on their side individually, and he could 


237 


The Sacred Cup 

produce noteworthy effects on points of discipline. It 
was thought by some that he had a kind heart, and 
others said no doubt his exalted position required that 
he should put ordinary people to a little trouble in dis- 
covering it. 

After all,’' he added in a tone of one making a 
generous concession, “ the clergy are mortal.” 

Yes,” said Margaret, hoping he included the clergy 
who live in palaces. She liked sharp contrasts, and 
recalled Karnes’s mode of living. ” He lodges in a 
small house at Wivelscote, and how hard he works 
among the people! He and Mr. Jerred are old friends, 
and as Mr. Jerred said — I was speaking to him about 
preferment — the one was taken and the other left.” 

” I should conclude from Mr. Karnes’s sermon,” 
said the Bishop, ‘‘ that he is a well-intentioned man, 
but unpractical. He is unmarried, I believe. I wish 
you would be kind enough. Miss Lyson, to ask one of 
your people to go to the Rectory and tell Mr. Jerred I 
shall call on him at three o’clock.” 

” Yes. Oh — but that is the hour of the children’s 
service.” 

Cannot one of the teachers take it? ” 

‘‘There is no one suitable. The Rector always 
takes it himself; he is at his very best at a children’s 
service.” 

‘‘The Reverend Mother Jerred,” said Sir Ardenne 
Lyson. 

“ The Reverend Father-and-Mother Jerred,” cor- 


238 


The Sacred Cup 

rected Margaret with a happy laugh. ‘‘ Well, it must 
be arranged, because he will be so pleased and honoured 
by a visit from you. Now you and father can have a 
quiet gossip about old times, and I will run over my- 
self and tell the Rector. And then I will go on to the 
church, and keep the children singing hymns as long 
as my strength holds out.’* 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Camoys, feeling that he had been caught in a blind 
alley and could not unhelped get out of it, told his aunt 
the whole miserable story as they went home. 

He blurted out everything, with desperate, almost 
brutal frankness ; it eased his mind to tell her, but he 
would rather have told any one else, had any one else 
been available. He could not trust Sir Ardenne Tyson, 
that namby-pamby fool wrapped up in his own conceit ; 
he could have confided in Karnes, and asked his advice 
about the Rector’s action, but he suspected Karnes’s 
affection for Margaret; and for the rest all his acquaint- 
ances were impossible. 

Poor Mrs. Tewknor was more than dismayed. She 
was a stricken and wretched woman. All her shining 
air castles seemed to be toppling about her head. As 
she listened to the terrible recital of what she conceived 
to be her nephew’s and her own undoing she con- 
tinually pecked at her eyeglass, but it offered her no 
consolation. 

“ Oh — Oh — ,” she moaned, “a common servant girl 
too! If it had been a chorus girl or some one of that 
sort it would not have been so bad. But a country 
239 


240 


The Sacred Cup 

girl who wore a straw hat with blue cornflowers in 
winter! Oh, Gilbert, this is enough to make your poor 
mother 

‘‘ For God’s sake,” he broke in, “ don’t bring my 
mother into this I ” 

” No — that won’t do any good, for it will all come 
out now and be public property! Don’t speak to me 
again of that wicked girl! It is too much, too shock- 
ing! But what,” cried the outraged lady, ” could one 
expect from a man with the mean little name of 
Jerred! ” 

They reached the grounds of Alard, and as Mrs. 
Lewknor said the very thought of going into the house 
seemed to suffocate her, they sat on garden chairs in a 
sequestered part. But neither could think of any solu- 
tion of the extraordinary difficulty. The sun was upon 
them, and the grounds, which appeared to have grown 
up under nature’s perfect artistry through centuries, 
were lovely to look upon, but they saw them with the 
sad and bitter eyes of farewell. 

Mrs. Lewknor every now and then peeped under her 
violet-tinted parasol to see if any one was near. She 
was ready to cling to the faintest hope that the situa- 
tion might yet be saved, but her anger against her 
nephew for his stupidity in defying the Rector, and 
his foolishness in not giving her the whole story long 
ago, tempted her to punish him — and at the same time 
punish herself — by assuming that the worst would now 
happen. 


241 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ Margaret will give you up, Gilbert! ’’ 

He did not speak. He was sitting with his shoulders 
forward, his walking-stick driven into the grass, the 
handle of it forced in absolute pain upon his chin. 

‘ ‘ How could you have been so mad as to go to 
church to-day? 

I ’ve told you I promised Margaret/’ 

But you could easily have got out of that! You 
might have been unwell — or hurt yourself — Oh, if only 
you had confided in me this horrible thing would never 
have occurred! ” 

“ I could n’t bring myself to believe Mr. Jerred 
would carry out his threat. I ’ve never heard of any- 
thing like this before; I ’ ve always taken it for granted 
that a clergyman was a gentleman.” Camoys threw 
himself back in his chair. ‘‘ I can’t realise it! I can’t 
get hold of it somehow — that he has done such a thing 
— and with the Bishop by my side! ” 

“And now Margaret,” cried Mrs. Lewknor, “will 
break ofiF the engagement! ” 

“ She may not,” Camoys said sharply. “ I hope she 
cares more for me than that.” 

“ But can’t you understand she is just the kind of 
woman who would want a man’s first love, and 
you ’ ’ 

“She has my first love! I ’ve never loved any 
other woman as I love her. You ought to know 
that!” 

“ I wish I could believe,” said Mrs. I^ewknor bitterly , 


242 


The Sacred Cup 

“ that Margaret will feel sure of it when she thinks 
of that unhappy child at the Rectory.” 

“ She may not know ” 

‘‘ Oh, Gilbert, don't go on deluding yourself! She 
probably knows everything already. I don't remember 
where she was, but there were only a few of us, and 
she must have seen. If she did n’t some one will very 
soon tell her! The Bishop at any rate must have seen, 
and that madwoman Shulmere, who was next to you. 
She almost fainted — and I had to make an effort myself 
to get back to our pew. Could any one have dreamed 
that Mr. Jerred would inflict on you so monstrous an 
insult ! . . . Gilbert, how did you feel when he 

passed you by ? ’ ' 

As if Margaret was looking straight at me! '' 

They sat in silence awhile. Then Camoys said, 
‘'We had better go in. Tuncheon will be ready.” 
But he did not rise. “ What,” he suddenly asked, 
“ do you propose should be done now ? ” 

“We must first of all ascertain whether Margaret 
knows. The Bishop would be extremely unlikely to 
speak of it at Chantry House, and if no one else but 
that Shulmere woman noticed, she might be silenced. 
This is the more probable as she appears to have 
spoken only to Mr. Jerred about that most unfortunate 
— that fatal letter. The working-man next to me ap- 
parently saw nothing, but of course I was too much 
upset to pay any attention to him. Will Mr. Jerred 
tell Margaret what he has done ? ” 


243 


The Sacred Cup 

I don’t think he ’s such a cad as that. ” 

“ Nor I. Then the incident may not leak out after 
all. We must put our heads together and decide what 
to do. Everything depends on Margaret’s not know- 
ing now — and if it were to come to her knowledge after 
your marriage it would be so much easier to give her 
an explanation then.” 

Camoys stood up. I ’m not going to deceive her 
any more! I ’ ve suffered enough already, and it would 
be awful to face afterwards, when she might accuse me 
of having tricked her! ” 

He moved away, but Mrs. Eewknor, who had not 
risen, beckoned to him to sit down again. 

I have something to say to you, and it must be 
said. You know how we stand; I have told you things 
could n’t be worse, but we are even more desperately 
at the end of our resources than I have had courage to 
tell you. I don’t upbraid myself for having spared 
you; I have had your welfare at heart, Gilbert, and 
it may be that I have been only too willing to hood- 
wink myself to some extent. I have had a harder 
time at Alard since your dear mother died than any 
one has been allowed to understand. We women get 
very little credit for what we go through in keeping up 
appearances. But last week I spent three or four days 
making out exactly how things are with us — and, 
Gilbert, my dear, we are no better than beggars. 
How I have been comforting myself with the thought 
that this nightmare of debt was passing away, and 


244 


The Sacred Cup 

now — if Margaret should give you up I don’t see how 
we can keep a roof over our heads. ’ ’ 

Camoys was seated miserably again. “She might 
not break it off even if I were to confess everything to 
her. She has a noble nature — and she does love me! — 
and nothing she has ever said has given me the idea 
that she thinks me blackguard enough to marry her 
only for her money.” 

“ But, Gilbert, she has such strange opinions about 
the sexes. She does n’t believe that what is wrong in 
a woman is right in a man. Do you understand ? ” 

“Yes. But I don’t think she goes to that extreme, 
absolutely.” 

“ If you have heard her speak of the father of the 
child as I have heard her speak — She would not 
to you, but you must know how she sympathises with 
young Margesson, and that shows her true feeling in 
the matter. It may be that had the refusal in church 
to-day been due to some other cause — almost to any 
other cause — she might have overlooked it. But, my 
dear boy, could she forgive your apparent desertion of 
the child ? ” 

“ I have never intended to desert the child! ” he said 
with emotion. “ I have only been awaiting a chance 
to claim him ” 

“Gilbert!” 

“ Yes, aunt, that ’s the truth. I ’ve been to see him 
again and again, and I ’ve felt when I ’ve been hold- 
ing him in my arms that if it ever came to a choice of 


245 


The Sacred Cup 

giving him up or giving Margaret up — then Margaret 
would have to go! 

Mrs. Lewknor was on the point of swooning, but a 
servant was approaching from the house to announce 
luncheon, and she mastered herself. She sighed, and 
used her smelling-salts. She had lost a little boy of 
her own, and his sweet image was the only joy in her 
heart. Her nephew had said a thing that threatened, 
for himself and for her, an existence of privation and 
misery; yet never had she so loved and admired him 
as at this moment. 

“ Call to Janet,'' she said feebly, ‘‘ that we are com- 
ing. I don't want her to come near me." 

Camoys motioned to the servant, but did not speak. 

" She has gone back." 

" I shall not be able to leave my room when I go in," 
said Mrs. I^ewknor. " But you must take some lunch 
— and do try to eat something, my dear. Give me 
your hand." 

She leaned on his arm as they went up to the 
house. 

" It may not be so — so appalling as you think. Aunt 
Ivucy." 

"But you must not tell Margaret!" she pleaded. 
"Ever since I saw the Rector miss you — oh, how 
could so kind a man do such a dreadful thing! — I have 
been haunted by the dread that you will never be her 
husband. Well, we must keep up our pride, if nothing 
else is left to us. You are a De Camo3^s. Please hold 


246 The Sacred Cup 

my parasol, Gilbert, or I shall let it fall. Oh — oh — 
and I have been negotiating for such a nice house at 
Bournemouth ... to live there after your mar- 
riage. . . 

She fainted, and he carried her into the house. 


CHAPTER XXX 


The^ children, who were always before the time when 
the Rector was going to be with them, were flocking to 
the church in twos and threes as Margaret went across 
the village to the Rectory. 

Mr. Jerred was in his room, but Mrs. Verdley said 
he had not asked to be left undisturbed, and on Miss 
Tyson’ s making the thrilling announcement that the 
Bishop would be at the Rectory at three o’clock, she 
hurried upstairs and knocked at his door. Margaret 
heard her calling excitedly, “ The Bishop ’s coming, 
sir! the Bishop ’s coming! Miss Tyson is waiting to 
see you!” Down she scampered again, and breath- 
lessly questioned Margaret as to how he should be 
treated; whether she should say ‘‘my lord” to him 
“ every time how long he was going to stay; what 
she should give him for tea; would he want to sleep at 
the Rectory that night ; and so on, until Margaret 
managed to say, “ You must n’t put yourself about for 
him in the least, Mrs. Verdley. He will be returning 
to us for tea.” 

“Oh ” 

“ And the carriage has been ordered for flve o’clock 


247 


248 


The Sacred Cup 

to take him back to Muntham. Don’t be disappointed 
at your not having to entertain him this time; he will 
probably be coming to Damberfield again. He only 
wishes now to have a short talk with the Rector.” 

” About little David ? ” 

I can’t say. He has not spoken of the child.” 

That shows how deep he is! I did n’t like the look 
of the back of his head in church. But shall I leave 
the door open for him to come in as if the Rectory be- 
longed to him, or wait till he knocks ? ” 

You might be in the hall at three o’clock; he has a 
reputation for punctuality.” 

” So I will, and I ’ve a good mind to have the child 
in my arms to show him he could n’t have the heart to 
send him to a charity home.” 

” I don’t think I would do that, if I were you, Mrs. 
Verdley. It might not have the effect you desired.” 

” Is he a hard man?” 

”I would not,” Margaret answered smiling, ''say 
he is soft.” 

'' Well, I ’m not going to let him steal the child! ” 

'' Ssh; here is Mr. Jerred.” 

Margaret, remaining in the hall, explained why she 
had allowed him to be disturbed, and added, "The 
Bishop seems to think I might be able to take the 
children’s service this afternoon.” 

"I am sure you could,” he said. "And perhaps 
you might apologise to them for my absence, in case 
they should suppose I am not well.” 


249 


The Sacred Cup 

You don’t look very well, Mr. Jerred.’* 

“ Thank you, I am not — I do feel somewhat strange,” 
he said with a faint smile. 

Well, I will go and do the best I can for the 
children.” 

But Margaret lingered, looking at him with pained 
wonder. She could not get away from the idea that 
he was in trouble — some new trouble, unknown to her, 
and yet intimately affecting her. 

” Are you feeling anxious, Mr. Jerred, lest the Bishop 
should be cross with you regarding David ? ” 

” No, Miss Tyson.” A great pathos was in his 
eyes; they never left her face, yet did not actually meet 
hers, and it seemed to her that his manner was even 
more touchingly simple and candid than usual. “I 
have been thinking his lordship might perhaps call — 
or send for me — and you are very kind to come over 
and tell me, and to offer to instruct the children. Per- 
haps you would like to take up the subject on which I 
had intended to speak to them.” 

” I am afraid I might not be equal to it.” 

” Oh, yes.” Mr. Jerred took a small sheet of paper 
from his pocket. ” One need not be a rigid textualist 
with children. ‘ Ye have not received the spirit of 
bondage again to fear; but ye have received the spirit 
of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.' I will 
jot down the reference : R-o-m., 8th chap., 15 v. Here 
are my notes; the headings may be useful to you. I 
don’t let the children see me looking at them, but put 


250 The Sacred Cup 

the paper in the Bible, because they are so observant 
and critical and don’t pay the same attention when 
they suspect one has copied it out of a book. And 
now, good-bye. Miss Lyson.” 

“But why ‘good-bye,’ Mr. Jerred? We are not 
going to be parted, I hope.” 

“ No, no. I forgot,” he said absently. 

His forgetfulness meant something, meant very 
much, to Margaret, but there was nothing in it to 
which she could give coherence. Had he been an in- 
sincere man she might have doubted his truthfulness. 
She gave him a beautiful smile of sympathy; and as he 
watched her go down through the shrubs he sought 
refuge again in the appealing cry which had for him 
more of submission than the words themselves mean: 

Throw away Thy rod, 

Throw away Thy wrath : 

O my God, 

Take the gentle path ! 

He had tried to take the gentle path himself, but he 
was being led into rugged places, along a road which 
was very hard and stern in spite of all he could do to 
soften it; and there was no telling what the end might 
be. 

For Margaret’s sweet sake he would have done any- 
thing short of defaming his priestly office and eclipsing 
the light of his conscience. He grieved for her in his 
innermost being. But he could not have done other- 


251 


The Sacred Cup 

wise. He could not allow even the man she loved to 
desecrate the profoundest of heavenly mysteries known 
to the actual experience of humanity. There had been 
no alternative. And were he again to be placed in the 
same position he would again be compelled to do as he 
had done. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Thk Bishop, however, being a man of worldly dis- 
cretion, a capable administrator who had been raised 
by a statesman to the throne of a saint, was not pre- 
pared to agree with Mr. Jerred as to the inevitableness 
of his action. He was first of all a practical man, and 
held the opinion that spiritual infiuence may belong to 
temporal power. He was ready to admit that the 
Church is a divine society, but not that it is required 
in these days to exist on starvation wages in the desert. 
To the Bishop the visible Church had its foundations 
firmly established on earth. There might be a rooting- 
up process some day, but that was not the immediate 
concern of common sense-rulers. It was necessary 
meanwhile to live, to be strong, to feed and clothe 
friends and fight enemies; and nobody could deny the 
tremendous effect of great possessions on the imagina- 
tion of mankind. 

Sir Ardenne Tyson was a personage; Miss Tyson 
was very wealthy; these were facts which could not be 
overlooked by a wise counsellor. The Bishop was a 
strong believer in compromise, and he was perfectly 
honest in his belief, particularly where rich persons or 
252 


253 


The Sacred Cup 

persons of noble birth were concerned. He favoured, 
with refinements and some exceptions, the cult of the 
Rising Sun. He would not have made any compro- 
mise with a millionaire who had incurred public oppro- 
brium; nor would he have sanctioned the remarriage 
in church of a notorious divorced person even if that 
person were a peer. But in cases where the newspapers 
had not been making an uproar there was generally 
scope for an agreeable settlement of diflSculties; and in 
the case of Camoys there had as yet been no open 
scandal beyond the very limited borders of this obscure 
parish. 

The Bishop did not for an instant dwell on the proba- 
bility that the little man who held this out-of-the- world 
cure of souls might be no respecter of rising suns and 
human faces; nor did he closely consider whether the 
course Mr. Jerred had taken might have been prompted 
largely by an especial care for the poor under his 
charge. He was offended at what he had witnessed 
in Lamberfield church, but not entirely bewildered as 
to its significance, since he had a good memory and re- 
called the postscript to the anonymous letter which 
had caused him to summon Mr. Jerred to the palace — 
‘ ‘ This was not written by Mr, Camoys, ’ * 

He put two and two together (the Bishop was a great 
hand at this feat), and concluded that the Rector sus- 
pected the young man with regard to the child which 
he obstinately refused to send to an institution. 

Then there was the Tysons' obvious ignorance of 


254 


The Sacred Cup 

the whole affair; and here the Bishop was on more 
uncertain ground. It could not be possible that Miss 
Lyson was aware of the facts which had apparently 
come to Mr. Jerred’s knowledge. 

It was equally clear that her father knew nothing. 
So cultured and sensitive a man would be deeply morti- 
fied were he to learn of his prospective son-in-law hav- 
ing been repelled from the Holy Communion. The 
Bishop therefore had decided not to return to Muntham 
until he had requested the Rector to give him a full 
explanation of the incident which had so surprised and 
pained him. He came, indeed, very near to convinc- 
ing himself that he had been personally affronted. 

As he strolled with Sir Ardenne Tyson in the grounds 
of Chantry House, after Margaret had gone to the 
Rectory, he elicited from his host the position which 
the Camoys family held in the county, and also re- 
ceived satisfactory assurances regarding the young 
man’s moral character. But Sir Ardenne Tyson must 
add a spiteful nip: 

The youth is amiable enough, but commonplace. 
There are a great many of them. Margaret is a good 
girl, and quite intelligent. She can appreciate most of 
my favourite authors. I don’t say she is making a 
mistake, but there appeared to be room for a little more 
consideration for others on her part.” 

‘'Mr. Camoys’ s unblemished reputation — so I 
gather,” said the Bishop, “ would doubtless lead Miss 
Tyson to overlook his mental shortcomings.” 


255 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Oh, he has no vice. His aunt is a peculiarly ex- 
asperating person, and he is under her thumb to some 
extent, I should think, but she has controlled him 
more or less since boyhood, and I dare say he does not 
feel her grip.’’ 

“ When is the marriage to take place ? ” 

“ In some three weeks, I believe. Margaret spares 
me the preliminary details. It may be that the Rector 
has been made the recipient of exhaustive particulars.” 
Sir Ardenne Lyson drew his finger down his cheek, 
and sighed artistically. She would have been a bril- 
liant success in a parsonage. But of course Mr. Jerred 
is intrinsically impossible.” 

Quite so,” said the Bishop thoughtfully. 

He went over alone to the Rectory. Mr. Jerred, 
waiting for him at the door, bowed low, and humbly 
showed him into his study. 

Shall I shut the window, my lord ? ” 

No, thank you. I ’m not afraid of fresh air. You 
had better shut the door.” 

Mr. Jerred obeyed, and turned to give his visitor a 
chair, but he had seated himself, and was looking at 
Karnes’s pipes. 

“ lyike most parsons, I see, you overdo the smoking 
habit.” 

“ I have not smoked, my lord, since I was a boy.” 

‘‘ Oh — then these will be the relics of your riotous 
past.” 

Mr. Jerred regretted that his diocesan should think 


256 


The Sacred Clip 

he had lived riotously at any time; but he would not 
tell on Arnold. 

“ My housekeeper has desired me to ask your lord- 
ship to — if you would be pleased to take a cup of 
tea ? 

No, thanks; I shall not be staying many minutes. 
I came to speak to you about what occurred in church 
this morning. You need n't stand, Jerred; sit down 
and give me the whole thing from the beginning. But 
don't be long-winded about it. You 'll see it has made 
me somewhat irritable." 

" Yes, my lord," said Mr. Jerred innocently. " You 
refer to Mr. Camoys? You would no doubt per- 
ceive " 

“ My dear man, it was sufficiently flagrant! Why 
did you miss him ? ' ' 

Mr. Jerred related the circumstances, leaving out 
nothing of which he was certain, but making no men- 
tion of the stolen letter, since he could not actually say 
that Camoys had taken it from his pocket while he 
slept in the wood. 

“The whole affair is most unfortunate," was the 
Bishop's comment. 

“ Indeed it is, my lotd." 

“Most unfortunate! Miss L<yson might for many 
years continue to be exceedingly useful to the Church, 
but when she hears of what you have done " 

“Ah!" Mr. Jerred exclaimed, “that, my lord, is 
my great dread and grief." 


The Sacred Cup 


257 


‘‘ It will be our loss too. A woman may be at the 
feet of the clergy, but it is n’t in feminine nature to 
forgive a thing like that.” 

'*1 do think,” said Mr. Jerred, ‘‘she may under- 
stand ” 

“Yes, she will understand, but from the point of 
view of the man she loves. If you were n’t absolutely 
ignorant about women you would n’t need to be told 
this, Jerred. She will feel that you have done it to her 
as well as to the man she is going to marry.” 

“ My lord, this — this aspect of our trouble has not 
hitherto occurred to me.” 

The Bishop gave the smile of unique cynicism which 
is born of the attempt to make a Christian an amalgam 
of the House of Tords and the House of God. 

‘ ‘ Does it occur to you even now ? ’ ’ 

“ No, my lord — not altogether convincingly.” 

The Bishop’s smile came to an end. His reading of 
character being purely superficial, he gave Mr. Jerred 
credit for a kind of silly inofiensiveness, but besides 
this he saw, what invariably provoked him to his most 
authoritative mood, an undue exultation of privilege 
in the minor clergy. 

“ I am bound to conclude,” he said, “ that you have 
brought your parish to the verge of an explosion by 
your refusal to take my advice with regard to the child. 
Where is it?” 

“ At home, my lord.” 

“You mean in your house ? ” 

^7 


258 


The Sacred Cup 

'‘Yes. Would you care — Mrs. Verdley thought 
perhaps you might wish to see it? '' 

The Bishop was silent; the idea was too absurd for 
him to notice. 

“It is deplorable that so many of the clergy forget 
the all-important fact that a parish is merely a unit in 
the diocese, and that the whole should be considered 
not less than a particular locality. There is far too 
much narrow parochialism. You see, if this thing gets 
noised abroad it will be more than a village scandal. 
It is not as though you were dealing with common 
people. If you were to treat a farm labourer in this 
way nobody but his own friends would be interested. 
But these people — Camoys and the Tysons — are of very 
considerable social importance, and of greater use to 
the Church than you seem to think. I knew Sir 
Ardenne Tyson well in Tondon, and he performed 
valuable service for me there. His daughter is wealthy 
and generous; she subscribes handsomely to most of 
our diocesan organisations. Camoys may not be 
wealthy, but he is engaged to her, and he is practically 
lord of the manor here. I fancy he is a lay rector; it 
is certain his family used to appoint to this living. I 
should think the law would support him against any 
attempt to turn him out of his parish church.’^ 

‘ ‘ My lord, I have never contemplated anything like 
that.’’ 

“ Very well then. Now let us see where we stand. 
This scandal has not broken out yet, but if it does it 


259 


The Sacred Cup 

will go over the whole diocese, and have a most un- 
fortunate effect. If the marriage is abandoned in con- 
sequence, it may get into the newspapers, and then our 
enemies will have fine things to say about priestly 
usurpation and what not! You are so hopelessly un- 
practical, Jerred. You must learn to take broader, 
more modern views. And I should have thought that 
you of all men would have known that love of the 
brethren is one half of our obedience.’’ 

'*1 hope, my lord, I bear no malice towards Mr. 
Camoys. But I cannot think he has himself shown 
such love towards his brethren — or even towards his 

child, or the mother of his child — to justify me in ” 

Please let me conclude! First of all, are you de- 
termined — I use the word advisedly — to ignore my 
suggestion with regard to the child?” 

Mr. Jerred hesitated. Then he answered meekly, 
“ I am afraid I must, my lord.” 

The Bishop, looking at him with displeasure, said, 
'‘You have taken other advice on the subject ? ” 

" Not legal advice, my lord.” 

" No; far worse — from Mr. Karnes ? ” 

" I have discussed the matter with him,” Mr. Jerred 
admitted, “but not during the past few weeks. In 
the main — indeed, altogether — for all I have done I am 
alone responsible.” 

The Bishop showed signs of bringing the interview 
to a close. “It is plain to me, Jerred, that you are 
disposed to magnify your ofl&ce. Now, there is danger 


26 o 


The Sacred Cup 

in that — danger to yourself, to the Church at large, 
and danger of your doing, I will say unintentional in- 
justice to individuals. I grant you have courage. But 
courage without tact may defeat its own ends. It may 
work disaster broadcast. You are shut up in obscurity 
here, but a village has often been the centre of national 
strife, and of questions in the House of Commons. 
Well, I don’t want anything of that sort. Nor shall I 
make any further effort to induce you to remove the 
child which has been the cause of all this trouble.” 

I beg your lordship’s pardon, but I trust you will 
allow me to point out that it is not the poor child which 
has caused this trouble — but the sin — the father’s sin 
— his neglect and deception, his selfish infliction of 
sufferings on innocent persons — or at least his grave 
culpability in standing by while they suffered — and his 
unrepentance and open defiance of my authority in my 
own parish.” 

' ‘ Quite so. It is not necessary for you to go into all 
that again. It is perfectly clear to me, and I am not 
exonerating Camoys from blame. He deserves to be 
punished. But the question is, Have you gone the 
right way about it? Very well then. And now, in 
the interests of every one involved, and especially in 
the interests of the Church which we both love and 
serve to the best of our ability, I suggest that — shall I 
say bury the hatchet? In other words, that you 
should adopt a less aggressive, a less ofScial, attitude 
towards Mr. Camoys, and endeavour to effect some 


26 i 


The Sacred Cup 

sensible and practical compromise by which he will be 
put into more pleasant relations with you/’ 

Mr. Jerred could not pretend to misunderstand this 
overture. I shall be only too pleased, my lord, and 
very much relieved in my mind, to be on good terms 
with him again. But I can do nothing until he shows 
a more contrite spirit.” 

‘‘ What do you expect him* to do? ” 

I have solemnly warned him ” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” the Bishop interrupted impatiently. 

‘ ‘ But what do you expect him to do ? ” 

‘ ‘ He has grievously wronged poor people who have 
no means of obtaining redress if I do not come to their 
aid, and, my lord,” said Mr. Jerred, holding up his 
head and facing his Bishop bravely, “ I am resolved, 
with God’s help, to stand by them, since they have no 
friends in high places — and therefore I cannot give 
Mr. Camoys the blessed Sacrament until he has atoned 
for his fault and made such reparation to them as may 
now be in his power.” 

The Bishop rose. But he hesitated to go, and stood 
tapping irritably on the table with the tips of his 
fingers. At last he said: “ My dear Jerred, you are a 
visionary. You are dreaming of a counsel of perfec- 
tion, an ideal parish with angelic parishioners; but if 
you had a quarter of my experience of human nature 
you would understand that nothing is gained by ex- 
treme measures. We must consider both sides — all 
sides. You are dealing here not with an enemy of the 


262 


The Sacred Cup 

Church, not with a young man who lives a depraved 
life and openly blasphemes, but with just an ordinary 
sinner — and you are dealing with him by methods 
which belonged to the Middle Ages, not to the twen- 
tieth century/’ 

“ I have not gone beyond the prayer-book, my 
lord!” 

The Bishop stepped to the door. 

“ Very well then! But I must request you to give 
this matter your further and most serious consideration. 
It will be a profound annoyance to me should any 
scandal break out. I beg you to reflect on what I have 
said — not quite officially, but rather as a father to a son 
— and come and see me not later than next Friday. I 
shall be at home on Wednesday and Thursday from 
four till six o’clock. Good-day.” 

Mr. Jerred could not speak. He tried to get before 
the Bishop, to hold open the front door, but the right 
reverend prelate walked rapidly out. As the Rector 
turned, Mrs. Verdley came along the hall. 

” Has he gone, sir? I heard him shouting in the 
study. I suppose he thinks it ’s as big as his palace, 
and nobody can hear.” 

” Did you ” 

” No ; I did n’t hear anything, but I was tempted to 
creep up and listen. Is he angry with you, sir ? ” 

” I am afraid he is not pleased, Mrs. Verdley. But 
do n’t let that bother you. It is not about little David 
this time.” Mr. Jerred put on his hat. ” I will go 


263 


The Sacred Cup 

and look at the syringa. It is beautifully in blossom 
just now, and one is comforted just by looking steadily 
at it for a while.” 

He went out into his garden. ‘‘ Ah, the first straw- 
berry,” he said, bending over a border of marguerites 
and golden feather. He thought of taking it in to 
baby, but was afraid he was too young to like straw- 
berries, and Mrs. Verdley was too old to care for only 
one. So he ate it himself. He looked up to the calm 
blue and white sky, and said, “ Thou dost preserve to 
our use the kindly fruits of the earth, so as in due time 
we may enjoy them.” 

Then he listened, a smile on his face and in his soul. 
He had never before missed the children's service, and 
he could hear them singing in church. Miss Tyson 
would be leading them. It seemed to him that they 
were very near to him, and he hoped they thought he 
was very near to them. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Thk window of their sitting-room being open, 
Floretta and Douglas Shulmere also heard the children 
singing in church. He had promised to come home 
for dinner, and she had waited till two o’clock for him. 
Floretta was not a good cook, but she could make 
sweet puddings to her brother’s liking. She ate 
scarcely anything herself at dinner; and sitting in a 
chair with her face towards the window, she forgot 
that the things had not been cleared from the table. 
She had just told Douglas what she had seen while 
kneeling beside Mr. Camoys at the altar rail. She did 
not look at him as she spoke. Her voice was inex- 
pressive; her attitude unutterably weary. 

Such purpose as her mind was able to form, in the 
prostration which had followed her emotional strain 
in church, was that her brother’s revengeful feelings 
might be lessened by knowing of that humiliation 
which had been put upon Mr. Camoys. Douglas, it 
seemed to her, had been relenting in his hatred, and 
in her fading mental lucidity she cherished the hope 
that the open shame which Mr. Jerred had imposed on 
Lottie’s betrayer would have the elBFect of making him 
think he had been punished enough. 

264 


265 


The Sacred Cup 

Floretta knew she was dying; the end could not be 
far off, and she was resigned, praying it might come to 
her while she slept. She did not want to give trouble 
to any of her neighbours at the last, or to Mr. Jerred 
or Mrs. Verdley, or even to Douglas. Suffering and 
misery had for so long been her companions that they 
had come to wear quite a friendly aspect. But she was 
rather tired of being with them, and there was a great 
deal she wanted to tell her mother. 

She had passed the acute stage of care for Douglas ; 
he was simply an item in the heavy burden she was 
so willing to lay down. She could do no more for him, 
no more for herself; her heart was feeding on itself, 
and only death could relieve the dull, ceaseless pain. 
She had begun to pray for her brother at the altar, and 
was wondering if Mr. Camoys was thinking of him, or 
of Lottie, when the Rector had frightened her into 
collapse of body and mind by refusing the consecrated 
elements to the man by her side. And since then she 
had done nothing but look on death as one ready to 
give it the kiss of the great reconciliation with eternal 
things. 

She had received a blow such as Camoys could not 
feel, but Floretta did not think of this. She exagger- 
ated his dishonour, and exaggerated also her brother’s 
realisation of it, and the exaggeration soothed her. 
Perhaps it was nature’s way of comforting her, or God’s 
way of saving a broken reed from being driven to and 
fro in the wind. 


266 


The Sacred Cup 

When she told Douglas, she did not expect him to 
say anything, and yet his silence disquieted her. He 
was seated before the empty fireplace, and did not 
speak until she said, ‘‘ I don’t think Miss Lyson 
knows”; and then he asked, ” Was she not there? ” 

” Yes. But she was at the far end, and Mr. Jerred 
did it so quietly, as if trying to hide it from everybody. 
I should n’t have noticed it myself if I had been on the 
other side of Mrs. Lewknor. What beautiful white 
flowers were on the Communion table, Douglas! ” 

She dragged herself out of her chair, and gathered 
up the dinner things, taking them into the kitchen. 
She returned to the living-room, and gazed about it 
vacantly, telling herself she had forgotten to do some- 
thing, but could not think what it was. She sank on 
a chair by the door, and looked out of the window at 
the children running past from church. 

Then she remembered she had left the white cloth on 
the table, and her eyes rested on it. She liked to see 
it there; it gave a solemn air to the room; Douglas 
would not say she was lazy if she left it till tea time. 

The children were laughing and calling in the vil- 
lage; to Floretta their happy young voices sounded as 
from another world. Yet her own childhood seemed 
very near to her at this moment; it came back merci- 
fully to meet her again at the end of her Via Dolorosa. 
She would like to go to the evening service, to hear 
Mr. Jerred preach. She was sure it would be a beauti- 
ful sermon. But she had not strength enough to take 


The Sacred Cup 267 

her across. She felt she did not wish to leave the 
house again. 

‘‘ The kitchen fire has gone out, Douglas.’’ 

‘‘ I don’t want it,” he said. 

” No; it ’s not cold. I ’ll light it if you will come 
home to tea.” 

” Where,” he asked, ” are you going?” 

” Nowhere, Douglas.” 

” I ’ll not be in to tea,” he said. 

” Very well, dear.” She was moving into the 

passage. ” Good .” The night ” was inaudible 

to Shulmere; she looked in at him, knowing she had 
said something she ought not to have said, and then 
she added, ‘‘ I am so tired, Douglas.” 

” Go and lie down, then.” 

“ Yes. I ’ll go to my room and rest awhile.” 

He did not hear her on the stair. But he heard her 
door being shut, and her slow step overhead. Then 
the house was in silence, and the voices of the children 
outside heardly reached Shulmere more distinctly than 
they had reached his sister. 

But he listened presently: Miss Tyson was passing 
with a friend, and her bright ripple of laughter came 
in through the open window. He got up and shut it, 
and again huddled himself in the armchair. She was 
in ignorance, then, of what had occurred close to her 
in church. 

Would any one tell her? She must be told! Shul- 
mere’s hand was clasped on the revolver in his pocket; 


268 


The Sacred Cup 

its four chamlDers were loaded; he had bought it, a 
second-hand weapon, in the cathedral city with the first 
money he had earned after Floretta’s disclosure of the 
contents of Lottie’s letter to her. He had sought work 
for this purpose, and had done nothing since. He 
would never do anything again — only one thing, and 
it would have been done before now but for his coward- 
ice, the craving of his corrupt and feeble nature to take 
vengeance secretly in the dark, his incurable tendency 
to drift on the lines of least resistance. 

Since he had obtained possession of the revolver 
Lottie had been growing less and less real to him, and 
her once adored and idealised image was now barely 
distinguishable from his malignant hatred of Camoys. 
Yet he clung desperately to the idea of his love for her, 
and had he been forced into justification of his acts he 
would have said they were done for her sake. He had 
carried her letter in his pocket ever since stealing it 
from the Rector, and had been weeping over it con- 
vulsively in Vallum wood at the very time when Mr. 
Jerred was distressing himself with the suspicion that 
Camoys had taken it. He had read parts of it hundreds 
of times, but never again with tears. 

He took it out, and read a few sentences ; the paper 
was grimy and worn, the folded sheet just holding 
together. 

"'‘I have never told anybody but you it was Mr, Camoys 
and you must keep it a secret Floretta. . . . I can' t 

remember my ow7i father or mother and often Mrs, 


269 


The Sacred Cup 

Verdley did laugh when I said Father Jerred this or that, 
, . . Floretta be sure not to tell Douglas I have wrote F 

The pathos of the letter had appealed to Shulmere 
poignantly on his first reading it, but he was not moved 
by it now. She had given herself to a gentleman,’' 
and to the last she had tried to screen him. So it had 
been with his own mother, for whose memory he had 
a morbid reverence: she, the daughter of another 
gentleman, had been forsaken by him; she had often 
said that she and her children ought to have been 
living in luxury. He was the disowned of a class, the 
class of wealth and power, and he was cursed with its 
tastes but denied its privileges. Camoys represented 
that class; so the curse had come again into his life, 
through the girl he had loved. And she had done 
what she could to shield him; and now he was going 
to marry a woman reputed to be fabulously rich. Per- 
haps he would. In any case she would not become his 
wife without knowing what Mr. Jerred thought of him. 

All the afternoon, though it was so fine, Shulmere 
sat pondering on how he could most effectively acquaint 
Miss Lyson with the incident she had evidently failed 
to notice. 

At last, there being still no movement in Floretta’ s 
room, he got up and took her writing materials from a 
drawer in the dresser, and sat down at the table. Again 
he meditated what he should say, and for half an hour 
he did not write a word! Then he began by address- 
ing the envelope, and marked it on the back ''Private,” 


2 70 The Sacred Cup 

to guard against its being opened by any one but Miss 
Lyson. Her father might open it, and keep it from 
her. He looked about for a stamp, but could not find 
one, and as he did not possess a penny he determined 
to go to Muntham and post the letter without a stamp. 

He could not, however, give mental form to what he 
wanted to write, and there was only one half-page of 
writing paper in Floretta’s blotting pad. She might 
miss it, and ask him to whom he had been writing. 
This did not deter him; he would not mind if she were 
to come down and catch him at it; he would tell her 
what he was doing. Finally he wrote: 

Dear Madam,— 

Why did the Rector refuse Mr. Camoys the Sacrament in 
church to-day ? 

This, he assured himself, would be better than a 
plain statement. It would give her the torments of 
suspicion, and lead her to subject Camoys to the tor- 
ments of examination. She would not explain to him 
at once what she had received; she would craftily ques- 
tion him, getting nearer and nearer, and then suddenly 
confound him by producing the letter. Shulmere did 
not sign his name to it, but this omission was not due 
to fear of discovery, as he made no attempt to disguise 
his handwriting. 

He had conceived and written the note with utter 
callousness of feeling, absolute moral insensibility as 
to the consequences of his act. He would not have 


271 


The Sacred Cup 

said to his sister, ‘‘lam doing a thing that will bring 
untold misery on Miss I^yson,’’ because he had no 
special wish to hurt her, if he could have individualised 
her from Camoys ; he simply did not care. He put the 
writing things back in the drawer, and left the house. 

He went to Muntham, taking the bypaths across the 
fields, and dropped the letter in at the head post-office. 
He had passed several pillar-boxes, but could not trust 
it to them. Moreover, he wanted it to reach Miss 
Lyson by the first delivery in the morning. 

After posting it, he wandered about the city for 
nearly an hour, feeling no grudge now against any 
one, nor remembering the inexpressibly mean thing he 
had done. It had gone completely from him, and his 
mind was a blank to the mischief he had wrought. 
Had he met Miss I^yson he would have looked at her 
without realising that he had inflicted a cruel blow 
upon her. 

He returned to lyamberfield over the hills, and on 
meeting an old gentleman of kindly expression, for the 
first time in his life he begged, and was given a shil- 
ling. As the old gentleman went on, Shulmere wheeled 
round, and was suddenly seized with a horrible impulse 
to shoot him. The next moment he trembled from 
head to foot, and fell on the ground. He lay thus for 
a long while, the moon rising upon him. When he 
got up the revolver rolled out of his pocket, and he 
stood gazing at it. 

He looked away over the night-shrouded summits 


272 


The Sacred Cup 

of the hills ; and then he went on, leaving the weapon 
on the ground. But he went back, and picked it up. 
It was his refuge from these misfortunes which had 
brought him to the degradation of beggary. 

The moon was hidden by clouds when he reached 
Tamberfield. As he slunk along in the shadow of the 
wall surrounding Chantry House he met the Rector, 
who stopped and spoke to him. Shulmere returned 
sullen answers, but all at once he said: 

“ If I were to ask you to give me the Sacrament 
would you refuse ? '' 

“ No, Douglas. 

But you refused it to Mr. Camoys this morning — 
and everybody says I am worse than he is.'* 

Mr. Jerred was sorry to hear this. ‘‘Then your 
sister,'’ he said, “ has told you ? ” 

“ Yes. She could n't keep it to herself. She says 
it 's an awful thing to do." 

‘‘ So it is, Douglas.*' 

‘‘Yet you would n't treat me like that? . . . 

Good-night, sir." 

It seemed to Mr. Jerred that Shulmere went into his 
home. But he passed round it, noticing that it was in 
darkness, and going back again to the path by Chantry 
House, he crossed the slopes of the hills and made his 
way to Alard Place. The night was warm and calm; 
Shulmere was not going home. He saw the lights in 
the windows of the old house in which many genera- 
tions of De Camoys had been born. He crept into the 


273 


The Sacred Cup 

east copse, and finding a dry spot beside the trunk of a 
tree that had been blown down in a great storm when 
he was a boy, he decided to sleep here. But for a long 
while he sat on the tree gazing through the copse at 
those lights higher up on the beautiful terraces. A 
nightingale began to sing close to him. He slid down 
noiselessly on his side. The moon shone in upon his 
face, transfiguring it, and upon his hands lying on the 
earth, the feeble hands. 

Mr. Jerred had been on his way to Alard Place when 
he came upon Shulmere by the wall of Chantry House. 
Mrs. Tewknor had sent a message to the Rectory say- 
ing she wished to see him at once. It was a verbal 
message, brought in the evening by a servant, who, 
questioned by Mrs. Verdley, said her mistress had been 
taken suddenly ill. Mr. Jerred set out immediately, 
taking with him a little book of prayers for the sick. 

He was kept waiting a long while in the hall, and 
was at last conducted up the great oak staircase, and 
shown into a large room, the air of which was so heavy 
with the smell of drugs that it made him recall a visit 
he had recently paid to a parishioner in the Muntham 
hospital. The servant did not announce him, and 
shut the door the moment he had stepped into the 
room. 

Mr. Jerred’ s first impression was that it was empty. 
On a table stood a lighted lamp with a soft pink shade, 
the light being so disposed that the greater part of the 

x8 


274 


The Sacred Cup 

room was left in shadow. Then he heard a low moan, 
and on looking towards the farther wall he saw a huge 
bedstead draped with white and pale yellow curtains. 
He did not go from the door until there was another 
and louder moan, and a voice said in rather shrill com- 
plaining, Oh, do come over here, Mr. Jerred! 

As he advanced to the bed he saw what appeared to 
him in the faint light to be a large splash of ink on the 
pillow. This was Mrs. Tewknor’s famous black hair, 
touchingly disarranged. She was in bed. 

‘‘You see what you done for me! ” 

“ I am very sorry, Mrs. Tewknor ’’ 

“ Sit down there,’' she said. “ I do so want to talk 
to you in a homely way, Mr. Jerred.” 

He was pleased to hear this, because her way of talk- 
ing was not usually homely. The chair was close up 
to the bed, opposite to where her feet might be sup- 
posed to be, but he did not notice the faintest outline 
of her body, the bedclothes being heaped over her in a 
snowy mound, burying her to her chin. Even her 
hands were invisible. But her keen little black eyes 
were peering out at her visitor from a pinched little 
face of extreme pallor. Mr. Jerred, forgetting her skill 
in make-up — he had never, indeed, much noticed it — 
was shocked to see her so deathly pale. She was like 
a corpse with only her eyes kept miraculously alive; 
and he did not care to look at her. 

“You see what you ’ve done for me! ” she repeated. 
“ Oh, this is most unfortunate. But you are n’t afraid 


275 


The Sacred Cup 

of me, I hope? I am only an old woman, and I 
have n't strength to move." 

" Please do not weaken yourself still more by talk- 
ing," he said feelingly. 

" Oh, but I must, even if it should end in my death. 
You 've been trying to ruin us all, and kill me! No, 
I don’t mean that. Of course you did n't intend to 
hurt us; and I 've been lying here thinking out the 
position from your way of looking at it. You 've al- 
ways been such a kind, nice, good man — just like one 
of those old and revered family doctors in whose advice 
every one feels the most implicit confidence. Yes, in- 
deed — no one can deny your goodness, Mr. Jerred. 
But this has been a dreadful blow, and I don't think I 
shall ever get over it. And yet, for poor Gilbert's sake 
— Oh, how could you have done such a thing, Mr. 
Jerred!" 

He was so confounded by her piteous state, and by 
the thought that he had unwillingly been the cause of 
it, that he was totally at a loss what to say. He took 
the book of prayers from his pocket, and sat holding it 
in his hand, as if waiting for her to ask him to read 
from it. She was silent, and he glanced at her, but 
could not for more than a moment keep his eyes on her 
face. 

She was not like any invalid he had ever seen be- 
fore, and he could not understand how, with her terri- 
ble appearance of final break-up, she should be able to 
give a sigh of such strange, aggressive energy, as 


276 


The Sacred Cup 

though it meant a kind of attack on him, or at least a 
reproach for his conduct towards her nephew. 

He would have wondered still more had he seen the 
look in her eyes as she watched him put the little book 
on his knee and open it. All he could do to comfort 
her, he felt, must be in words other than his own. For 
this was very unlike the sick beds by which he had sat 
in cottages, and the very smell of the medicine — if it 
was medicine — now seemed not to be carrying to his 
heart the same pathos, as in the presence of dumb 
suffering, which he had experienced in the hospital. 

I am so glad,” she began again, ” to hear you say 
you are sorry for what you did this morning in 
church.” 

Mr. Jerred grew restless, and showed it in his 
wandering gaze, from floor to ceiling, from the pink- 
shaded lamp to a picture between the two windows, in 
which a nude figure was coiled up like a serpent on the 
ground, something towering gloomily over it. But he 
did not speak, and hoped Mrs. Lewknor would refrain 
from compelling him to discuss this subject at such a 
time. 

” Your regret is the best tonic that could have been 
given me. No doctor can cure a broken heart! But 
if you withdraw from the position you ’ve taken up 
against Gilbert it may be possible for the matter to be 
put right ; and I knew, Mr. Jerred, that you must have 
done it on the impulse of the moment, and on second 
thoughts you would see how cruel it was! ” 


277 


The Sacred Cup 

“ Please don’t say that,” he said, and again glanced 
at her, and again could not keep his eyes on her face. 
” Won’t it be better for you,” he urged, “to be quiet? ” 

“But this must be cleared up without delay! So 
much hangs upon it — all Gilbert’s future, and mine 
too. But as you are going to help us to arrange the 
difficulty, and so prevent Miss Lyson from thinking 
the worst — — ” 

“ One moment, please,” said Mr. Jerred, bracing 
himself for candour. He could not allow her to assume 
that he had done wrong in the holy place; even were 
he from pity of her sad condition to leave her with this 
idea it could only lead to accentuated misunderstand- 
ing. “ It is true that I am sorry for you, Mrs. Lewk- 
nor, and for Mr. Camoys also. But I did not act 
impulsively in church this morning. That, you know, 
would have been inexcusable in a clergyman. I 
solemnly warned your nephew as to what I should be 
compelled to do w^ere he to present himself at the altar 
— and what I did was done, not in hastiness at all, but 
after grave deliberation.” 

As he said this he was vaguely conscious of a kind 
of squirming movement under the bedclothes; and 
the eyes in the ashen face were unnaturally bright and 
penetrating. 

“ Yes, you meant it for the best, conscientiously, 
according to your own peculiar view of these things, 
but you can’t expect us to see it altogether as you do. 
I confess I don’t, and my nephew does n’t either, and 


278 


The Sacred Cup 

I ’m sure Miss I^yson would n’t if it were to come to 
her knowledge. As good luck will have it — so far — 
she is in ignorance of what took place so close to her — 
and now you will assist us, Mr. Jerred, in keeping it 
from her, won’t you ? ” 

I shall not,” he answered, ** voluntarily speak to 
Miss lyyson on the subject.” 

” Thank you very much; that carries us a long way. 
I don’t want you to lose your reputation for kindness, 
and we all know how fond you are of what the Bible 
says about a broken reed and that sort of thing. Now 
I will tell you the truth — and it would make you so 
unhappy to betray an old woman’s confession. I ’ve 
been making inquiries this afternoon, and find that 
Miss Tyson is entirely unaware of what happened at 
the Communion. The Bishop must have known, hut 
he is a gentleman, and would n’t speak of it. From 
what Gilbert has told me, that Shulmere woman will 
be silent, and even if it should be known to any one 
else in the village they have too much respect for Miss 
Tyson to repeat such a shocking thing to her — so I am 
praying, oh, so earnestly, that the mischief may go no 
further. And now everything depends on you, Mr. 
Jerred! ” 

” I don’t understand,” he said, ” how that can be.” 

” Why, all you ’ve got to do is to say nothing, and 
it will pass over Miss Tyson as if it had never occurred. 
That ’s all, Mr. Jerred! She has such perfect trust in 
you that supposing it were to reach her ears she would 


The Sacred Cup 279 

be kept from suspicion by your assuring her there is 
nothing she need be alarmed about.'' 

Mr. Jerred had shut his book and returned it to his 
pocket. 

I am afraid, Mrs. Lewknor, I could not undertake 
to give Miss Lyson such an assurance." 

Her arms shot forth; Mr. Jerred saw the glitter of 
her jewelled fingers. The bedclothes billowed as if she 
were kicking some one. 

“ But you professed to be sorry, and I 've made my 
confession to you, believing in your good faith! " 

She rolled on her side, then on her back again, and 
uttered moaning sounds. 

'‘You have no mercy!" she cried. “ I was so ill 
when I got home from church, Gilbert had to carry me 
up here, and now you 'll soon have the consolation of 
getting the fees for my burial! " 

It was the crude vulgarity she would blurt out in a 
temper; and Mr. Jerred began to realise how matters 
stood, and that he had been brought to Alard Place 
under false pretences. 

" If you have stopped their marriage — if you are bent 
on poisoning Miss Tyson's mind against my nephew — 
then it simply means our ruin! It means the ruin of 
others also, but perhaps all that is nothing to you! " 

She made as if to rise on her elbows, but gave a 
smothered cry, and fell back on the pillow, clutching 
at her hair and pressing her hands upon it. 

“ You know well enough we are deeply in debt — oh, 


28 o 


The Sacred Cup 

yes, I 've heard of those tradespeople being at the 
Rectory to spy out how it is with us! — and if you stop 
this marriage they U1 never get their money in this 
world! If I should die as I feel just now,’’ Mrs. 
Lewknor added with a horrible rattling laugh that 
made Mr. Jerred shiver, they ’re not likely to get it 
in the next either! ” 

It was not her profanity, but the silly, malicious in- 
consequence of it that so distressed him; and he re- 
solved to put an end to the interview. He rose, and 
she immediately got up on her elbows and cried out at 
him as he moved away from the bed. 

“ You ’re a heartless man! You are wrecking two 
young lives, and bringing me to destitution, and that ’s 
a spectacle a minister of the gospel enjoys! ” 

All at once she gave a vicious sob, and then went on 
in tones meant to be supplicating, though they were 
fierce with resentment: 

Mr. Jerred! do try to be more generous! We ’ve 
always looked up to you, and I have done all I could 
for you, and made the people speak respectfully of you 
— and the Church of England is so broad and tolerant, 
you know — and I ’m not asking you to do anything 
against your conscience! You have only to hold your 
tongue, and Miss Lyson will only smile at anything she 
may hear, and so it will only— it will only— all blow over, 
and everything will be put right after the wedding — 
Oh, Mr. Jerred, do be kind and reasonable and let 
those two loving young people get married quietly! ” 


The Sacred Cup 


281 


He turned to her for a moment; he was now in the 
middle of the room. 

‘‘ I deeply regret, Mrs. Lewknor, that I cannot enter 
into any such compact as you suggest. It is impossible 
for me to act in any way that would have the effect of 
further deceiving Miss I^yson.’’ 

“ But I 'm not asking you to deceive her! I know 
you would n't do it— you 're so upright and straight- 
forward. You could n't hoodwink Miss Lyson even 
if you were to try; she would believe everything yon 
said, and if you were to be silent she would — Mr. 
Jerred! there can't be any harm in that ? It is so easy, 
you know, not to do anything." 

" I have found it," he answered, "somewhat difficult 
in this particular case." 

" Oh, but that was only in your clerical office, and 
now that you 've done your worst — I beg your pardon, 
but you see I 'm nearly demented about this! — and 
it 's quite different now, and your responsibility came 
to an end when you refused the Sacrament to my 
nephew. Now do be your charitable kind self," she 
pleaded, " and let bygones be bygones. You 've done 
what you thought the Church required you to do and 
you can be forbearing now without any loss of dignity. 
You 've proved what the Church can do, and that 's 
enough! And you are so attached to poor Margaret, 
and this would cut her up dreadfully, because she does 
really love Gilbert devotedly! " 

" I have said all I need say, Mrs. Lewknor." 


282 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ Let me tell you this, then! I ’ve never understood 
your motive in behaving in such an outrageous man- 
ner, and now I know it was done from spite and 
revenge! ” 

I beg to wish you good-night,’’ said Mr. Jerred, 
going to the door. 

“ You insulted my nephew in church because you ’ve 
had the impudence to fall in love with Miss Lyson 
yourself! As if she would m3.rry you / and you ’ve 
had the indecency to coax her into your house to take 
an interest in your abominable child there ! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Lewknor was beside herself; red spots of anger 
were showing under the powder on her face; her won- 
derful black hair, the talk of the village, seemed to be 
all tumbling down one side of her head. 

“ Ach!” she screamed, ‘'you common little hypo- 
crite!” 

Mr. Jerred quietly opened the door and went out. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Margarki^ read Shulmere’s note before her father 
came down to breakfast. Had he been present she 
would very likely have handed it to him, saying some 
one had been joking stupidly, or something of that 
sort. It was meaningless to her, and she put it aside 
and opened her other letters. Two or three of them 
were interesting, but somehow they did not hold her 
attention, and she took up the anon5"mous note again. 

‘ ‘ Why did the Rector refuse Mr. Camoys the Sacra- 
ment in church to-day?’’ There was no signature, 
and she did not recognise the handwriting. It was 
curiously feminine, and made her think of Floretta 
Shulmere, but she had seen Floretta’ s writing, and this 
was different. The similarity was striking, neverthe- 
less, and Margaret went up to her room, found a note 
Floretta had written her some time ago, and compared 
the two. She was satisfied they were not by the same 
hand, and was glad of this. 

She felt relieved, on coming down-stairs again, that 
her father had not yet appeared. She put it in her 
pocket, and went out into the garden to gather flowers 
for the breakfast table; Sir Arden ne Tyson would do 
283 


284 


The Sacred Cup 

this himself, were his daughter to forget or think the 
flowers of the previous day still too fresh to be thrown 
away; and should it be raining he would delay break- 
fast for perhaps half an hour, until he had cloaked 
himself, summoned a gardener to hold an umbrella 
over him, and spend a quite unnecessary time in select- 
ing the finest blossoms from the garden. All this he 
would do without a word of complaint. He thought 
his actions sufficient reproach of Margaret for her 
neglect of his happiness. 

She would patiently have done anything for him 
this morning — anything but show him the letter that 
was so unaccountably disturbing her. 

What could it mean ? The writer was evidently a 
person of mediocre education, and the rather soiled 
half-sheet of notepaper suggested that it had come 
from one in poor circumstances. She examined the 
envelope, and saw that it bore the Muntham postmark, 
and was without a stamp. She could not doubt that 
it had been sent by some one who knew her, but not 
intimately — none of her personal friends would do such 
an extraordinary thing — and her impression was that 
it had been written in Lamberfield. 

She assured herself there was no need whatever to 
regard it seriously. It was altogether incredible to her 
that Mr. Jerred had so acted. She must have heard 
of his intention; Gilbert would have told her; it could 
not have been kept a secret. The note, indeed, was 
absurd on the face of it; so momentous a step was only 


The Sacred Cup 285 

taken by a clergyman under the gravest provocation, 
from moral lapse which could not be forgiven until it 
had been publicly rebuked by the most terrible means 
known to the Church — and no one had ever uttered 
the faintest whisper against Gilbert’s moral character. 
Even her father admitted that he had no vice; and 
Margaret knew that, far from being heretical in his re- 
ligious beliefs, he was almost too complaisant in his 
acceptance of everything just as it had been taught 
him. 

Yet this must surely mean something — and what 
could it mean ? She must ask Mr. Jerred. It might 
not be necessary to show him the note, for fear of get- 
ting a villager into trouble. She could question him 
in such a way as to make it clear to her mind that an 
ill-disposed busybody had been at work. 

She could think of no person in Eamberfield answer- 
ing to this description. The people had shown nothing 
but good-will towards her, particularly since her en- 
gagement had been made known, and she felt ashamed 
of harbouring even for a moment uncharitable thoughts 
about them. Still, she could not rest till she had 
spoken to Mr. Jerred. 

Her father during breakfast was in his most in- 
tolerably fastidious mood, but Margaret was sweet and 
cheerful, and carefully avoided provoking him. As 
soon as the meal was ended she set out for the Rectory. 
If any one had asked her why she left the grounds by 
a side gate, as though not to be seen, she would have 


286 


The Sacred Cup 

coloured self-consciously, and yet would not have been 
able to give any satisfactory explanation. She did not 
know herself. 

While going through the village she saw Mr. Jerred 
standing at a cottage door in conversation with Mrs. 
Thurlow, whose daughter Katie was to be married to 
Walter Goodacre on the Thursday of this week. Mar- 
garet, not wishing to interrupt them, turned down a 
bypath, and came to the Shulmeres’ house. 

Her impulse was to go in, but it would be impossible 
for her to question Floretta; so she went on. There 
was, however, no use going to the Rectory; Mr. Jerred 
had probably just left home, and might be making a 
round of visits. 

She returned to the Shulmeres* cottage; and now she 
noticed that the blind of Floretta’ s bedroom had not 
been drawn up, and the window was closed. This 
was strange, as Floretta was an early riser, and in all 
weathers her window was open soon after dawn. The 
window of the living-room was slightly open, and the 
blind up. 

Margaret could not account for the awe that fell 
upon her as she passed through the neglected garden 
and knocked at the door. No one came, and she 
knocked again. Still there was no answer; and then 
she opened the door and looked in. 

“ Are you at home. Miss Shulmere? ” 

Floretta was at home — and yet not at home. Mar- 
garet stepped across the threshold, called, ‘‘Are you in. 


The Sacred Cup 287 

Miss Shtilmere?'' and, having waited a minute or so, 
softly shut the door and went away. 

She was again crossing the village, to return home, 
when she saw Mr. Jerred go up through the church- 
yard and enter the church. He was carrying some- 
thing; she made it out to be a pail of water. She went 
to the church, and stopped under the tower to look in, 
but the Rector was not to be seen. 

She moved down the nave, and stood by his seat at 
the end of the choir stalls. He had called it the rec- 
torial throne, but it was lower than the choir stalls, 
and as he would not allow it to be elevated he was 
almost lost to the congregation when he sat down in 
that stooping, modest way of his, as though he re- 
garded himself as of no account in his own church. 
Margaret had often sat in this seat, sometimes when 
she was alone in the church, sometimes when only Mr. 
Jerred was there, and on one occasion in the presence 
of Mrs. Verdley, who made her blush by saying, It ’s 
just where you should be. Miss, in more ways than one.^’ 

She sat now on the rectorial throne and looked at 
the prayer-book on the carved oak reading-desk before 
it. Mr. Jerred was no doubt in the vestry. Margaret’s 
eyes wandered to the sanctuary, but it was not the 
white flowers that drew them thither. She was look- 
ing at the altar rails, at the old crimson cushions be- 
fore them — that would be where Gilbert had knelt, the 
Bishop beside him; and that was where she had knelt 
beside Roland Margesson. 


288 


The Sacred Cup 

Everything, apart from the strange thought which 
had brought her to the church, seemed very cold and 
lifeless; it always was so after a celebration of the Holy 
Eucharist, and it was as though only a few moments 
had passed since she had come up to receive with Gil- 
bert in accordance with his promise to her. It had 
been the anniversary of her mother’s death, but she 
had not told him. 

At last Mr. Jerred came out from the vestry, and 
went up to the altar, taking from it one of the vases of 
flowers. As he was bearing it away he noticed Mar- 
garet, and stopped before her. She smiled, but re- 
mained seated in his stall. 

‘‘ I did not know you were here. Miss Eyson.” 

I followed you in. You see, I have taken posses- 
sion of your throne again. Am I not very daring ? ” 
Oh, you are quite welcome to it,” Mr. Jerred re- 
plied. “ I came to give the altar flowers fresh water. 
Katie Thurlow is to be married on Thursday, and I 
thought perhaps the flowers might be kept nice and 
pretty till then, as white ones are not so common yet.” 

He was standing before Margaret awkwardly hold- 
ing the vase with both hands, as though waiting for 
her to tell him to let it fall. 

We must do all we can to make the wedding quite 
a success. I don’t know Walter Goodacre very well, 
but Arnold — Mr. Karnes does, and speaks highly of 
him. They will have two clergymen to marry them; 
Katie has asked me, and Goodacre has asked Mr. 


The Sacred Cup 289 

Karnes; so they ought to be — '' He hesitated, and 

turned as if to go into the vestry. 

Yes; they ought to be properly married,'’ Margaret 
said. 

‘‘ But it seems I have thoughtlessly offended Katie,” 
said Mr. Jerred, ” with regard to the wedding present 
I bought her. I^ast week I chanced to meet her out- 
side a shop in Muntham, and as the window was full 
of feminine trinkets and articles, I said to her, ‘ Now 
come in here and choose something for yourself.’ I 
was surprised at the shop being so crowded with 
clothes; but Katie selected a brooch, and I did not no- 
tice anything wrong until I was leaving her outside, 
when the poor child was in tears. And now her 
mother, who is a very straightforward woman, has 
told me of the unfortunate mistake I made. It seems 
it was not an ordinary shop.” 

‘ ‘ A store ? ’ ’ 

” No. What is termed a pawnshop.” 

Margaret could not help laughing, and was glad to 
laugh. “It is not unusual,” she said, “ for people to 
buy jewellery in such places.” 

‘ ‘ But this was for a wedding — and of course I shall 
apologise to Katie, and take it back, and get her some- 
thing else from a proper establishment.” 

“ I shall be driving to Muntham this afternoon,” 
said Margaret; “perhaps you may find time to go with 
me.” 

“Yes — thank you,” said Mr. Jerred irresolutely. 

19 


290 


The Sacred Cup 

‘ ‘ And now I must see to the flowers. This vase is 
getting quite hot under my hands.’’ 

He went into the vestry; Margaret did not vacate his 
stall. She took the anonymous note from her pocket, 
and let it lie on her lap, but did not read it again. She 
could not make up her mind as to the wisdom or other- 
wise of showing it to the Rector, and this indecision 
perplexed her. It seemed such a simple thing just to 
say to him, ‘‘ Some ill-intentioned person has been tak- 
ing your name in vain”; or, ‘‘ I did n’t think there 
could be any one so rude in Tamberfield ” ; or, ” Please 
look at this nonsense that has been sent to me.” 

It appeared to her that he was taking a long time to 
change the water in the vase. As he came from the 
vestry again the question was on her lips, Do you 
know if this has any meaning ? ” — but she did not put it, 
and he passed up to the altar, bringing back two vases. 

‘‘They hold a good deal of water,” he remarked. 
“ I do wish. Miss Tyson, we could do something for 
Douglas Shulmere. I have just seen him from the 
vestry window, going home, and I fear he has been 
out all night. He has quite — I hope not quite — but 
he seems to have lost his way in life.” 

“ Does n’t he remind you,” said Margaret, “ of the 
epistle of St. Jude ? ” 

“ Not altogether. He might, perhaps, had it been 
written by St. Duke. Yet there is one saying in it we 
ought not to forget in our dealings with him — ‘ Of some 
have compassion, making a difference.’ ” 


291 


The Sacred Cup 

I have heard you preach three sermons on that 
text, Mr. Jerred.'’ 

Three? ” He looked confused. 

‘‘ Yes, and they were quite different. They covered 
all humanity, I think, except those people you so much 
dislike, the people who oppress the poor, and lead the 
' innocent and weak into evil.’’ 

He sighed, and once more disappeared into the 
vestry. Margaret was not getting on with her elucida- 
tion of the mystery of the note as she had hoped. She 
looked at it; and then as her gaze rested on the prayer- 
book she recalled what Mr. Jerred had said to herself 
and Gilbert as they sat together on the green bench in 
the Rectory garden. She leaned forward and opened 
the book. And if any of those be an open and notorious 
evil liver, or have do7ie any wrong to his neighbours by 
word or deed — — ’ ’ 

The Rector reappeared, and Margaret said to him, 
“ Mr. Jerred, have you ever put this power into 
action ? ” 

He bent over the reading-desk; their heads almost 
touched. Seeing where she had opened the book, he 
drew back a little, facing the altar. His silence had 
for Margaret an acute significance. She held the note 
across the desk, but he did not see it, and she withdrew 
it, secretly putting it in her pocket. 

She knew that she would not show it to him — at 
least not yet. She must first speak to Gilbert. She 
was self-possessed, but it was the self-possession of one 


292 


The Sacred Cup 

vaguely conscious of moving on the edge of an abyss, 
and eagerly careful of her every step. 

Do you say Douglas Shulmere has just passed the 
church ? 

Yes. I saw him last night. He ought to make 
an effort; he is so intelligent.’^ 

‘‘ I was impressed,” said Margaret, ” by his saying 
to me once that he was born without a psychological 
moment. I told him it was a man’s duty to make 
one.” 

“That is so,” said Mr. Jerred. “I think psy- 
chology, like everything else worth knowing, begins 
at home; in our having the courage to be honest with 
ourselves; in our learning how to make a good con- 
fession — to ourselves, if to no one else.” 

He went on to the altar, and returned with two more 
vases, as if he were anxious to have done with them 
and get away from the church. 

Margaret stopped him with a smile. She had her 
finger on the margin of the rubric. 

“ This is what you had written out that day — do you 
remember ? The words are still more solemn as they 
appear here, though the print is so small.” She began 
to read in low, calm tones : ‘ ‘ The curate, having know- 
ledge thereof, shall call him ayid advertise him, that 
in any wise he presume not to come to the Lord' s table, 
until he have openly declared himself to have truly 
repented. . . .” 

Margaret paused, and as she looked at Mr. Jerred 


293 


The Sacred Cup 

his peculiar sadness and constraint of the previous day, 
when she had announced the Bishop’s visit to him, and 
offered to take the children’s service, intensely recurred 
to her. He was just like that now. His eyes were on 
her face, but avoided meeting hers. Yet there was no 
suggestion of anything crafty in his manner. On the 
contrary, he seemed to be overcome by tender solicitude 
tow^ards her. 

‘‘ This is a tremendous power, Mr. Jerred.” 

“ Yes, Miss Tyson. . . . Will you kindly excuse 

me ? If I delay I may forget which vases I have 
refilled.” 

This time he shut the vestry door behind him. Mar- 
garet sat back in his stall, scarcely now having any 
clear thought. She was gazing at the vestry door, 
when it was opened, and the Rector glided out, passed 
up the chancel without looking at her, and returned 
with the last two vases. 

Mr. Jerred, I am bothering you very much ” 

“ Not at all, Miss Tyson.” 

Her purpose was to make him stop, but when she 
had effected it she had nothing to say concerning this 
thing that was gradually absorbing her whole being. 
She noticed in one of the vases he was holding the 
pansy of virginal blue with the golden heart, and re- 
marked upon the solitary point of colour in the mass 
of white blossom. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I shall miss my pansies.” 

“ But you are not going to leave us, Mr. Jerred ? ” 


294 The Sacred Cup 

“ I am afraid I shall have to resign my living, Miss 
Lyson.’' 

‘‘ Oh — but why ? Margaret stepped out of the stall. 
“ Has the Bishop — please don’t think me rude; it does 
concern us all very much, you know — surely the Bishop 
did not call on you yesterday to ask you to resign ? ” 

“ Oh, no; he did not suggest that I should give up 
my benefice. But it has seemed to me desirable that I 
should do so.” 

‘ ‘ Have you been appointed to another living ? ’ ’ 

‘'No. I shall probably take a curacy. That will 
do very well for a time — and Mr. Karnes and many 
other men far more gifted than I am are still curates. 
The difficulty will be with Mrs. Verdley. I don’t sup- 
pose that as a curate I should have a sufficient stipend 
to maintain my own house, and Mrs. Verdley might 
not care to go into lodgings with me. But after I have 
seen the Bishop again I shall lay the whole matter be- 
fore her, and you know how resourceful she is.” 

He began to move towards the vestry door, but Mar- 
garet said : “ I have hesitated to show you this note. 
I really could not tell you why — but now — as you are 
mentioned in it — I must ask you to read it. You need 
not put down the vases. It is very short.” She held 
it up to him with a perfectly steady hand. ” What 
does it mean, Mr. Jerred?” 

He was overwhelmed, and bowed his head in sorrow 
before it. 


“ Is it true ? ” she asked. 


295 


The Sacred Cup 

“Yes, Miss Lyson. . . . God help us all,’' he 

said. “ I cannot express to you what it has meant to 
me — what I suffered iu doing it — what I am suffering 
now. Ah, forgive my selfishness in thinking of my- 
self ! The grief it has been to me is as nothing com- 
pared with what it must be to you! ” 

“ And to the man,” said Margaret Tyson, “ who is 
to be my husband.” She turned away; but not even 
now did she lose her self-control. 

“ I do not ask you, Mr. Jerred, to say why you have 
done this. Gilbert must know, and I would rather 
first hear it from him. I owe him that loyalty — and it 
is his duty to tell me.” 

She went out of the church. When she reached the 
open air the sun shone upon her, and she heard the 
children coming from school. She shrank back under 
the tower, and leaned awhile against the old wall. 
She could not go home yet; she could not speak to her 
father, or to any one — not even to Gilbert. 

She waited till the children had passed, and then 
went through the churchyard, and made her way by 
unfrequented paths to Vallum wood. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


A BOY running by shouted a taunt at Douglas Shul- 
mere as he slouched miserably home after his sleep in 
the east copse at Alard, but he paid no heed to it. 
The villagers who saw him had no sympathy to waste 
on him. He knew what they thought of him, and 
was indifferent to their opinion. The shilling the old 
gentleman had given him rattled in his pocket beside 
the revolver; and the coin and the weapon were telling 
him something, though he could not yet interpret the 
message. The boy had called at him, “ Who sponges 
on his sister?’’ and he was going to repeat this to 
Floretta, and give her the shilling, saying how he 
came by it. He would at any rate put it on the table; 
he knew she would not touch money he had begged. 

In his dreams in the copse he had followed the old 
man who gave it to him, seeing in him the embodiment 
of all his hatreds, and had killed him. The deed was 
disappointing, even in dreamland; it darkened rather 
than illumined the road to self-expression; he awoke 
at sunrise, but shut his eyes on the rosy light and tried 
to go to sleep again, dreading another day that would 
be just like the others in this senseless game of keep- 
ing alive. 


296 


297 


The Sacred Cup* 

As tie opened the door of his home an unwonted 
chilliness smote him, and he shivered. 

The appearance of the sitting-room seemed strange 
to him; yet it was exactly as he had left it on the 
previous afternoon, when he went to Muntham to 
post the letter to Miss Lyson. The white cloth was 
on the table, and the chair which he had drawn up 
to it to write had not been moved. The window 
was still a little open at the top. Nothing had been 
altered. 

Shulmere went into the kitchen, and found it also 
precisely as he had last seen it. He opened the back 
door and looked out upon the tiny piece of garden 
there, but saw no sign of his sister. He returned to 
the passage, and stood apparently gazing in on the 
white tablecloth. 

He could see himself sitting there writing the note 
to Miss Tyson, and for a long while he could not get 
away from the vision. He saw himself then as he was: 
he believed that his soul had been detached from his 
body, and that this figure at the table was the wretched 
creature Douglas Shulmere as seen by his sister and 
by all the people among whom he had lived since 
childhood. It was the Douglas Shulmere who had 
come to beggary, who was mocked at by children in 
the village, the Douglas Shulmere who had written 
that infamous letter to a lady who had again and again 
saved himself and Floretta from starvation. 

He stepped towards the front door, as though about 


298 


The Sacred Cup 

to leave the house, but the vision was before him still, 
vivid and horrible here in the darkness. He pulled 
the revolver out of his pocket, and in that moment he 
heard again Mr. Jerred’s kind voice saying, ‘‘ No, 
Douglas,’’ in answer to his question as to whether he 
would refuse him the Sacrament. This saved him 
then. And he would have been saved altogether had 
he gone out and found Mr. Jerred and opened his 
heart to him, disclosing all its weaknesses and its 
crimes. The Rector was then in the church, almost 
stupefied with anguish, but . he would not have let 
Shulmere go. The revolver was returned to his pocket, 
and he looked up the stair. 

Floretta,” he called. 

All his native refinement came out in his tones; he 
could not have spoken more gently to her had she 
been lying ill. Her bedroom door was shut, but his 
was open, and the light from the window of his room 
streamed in on to the narrow little landing. 

Floretta,” he called again, louder, but even with 
more kindness. 

He wished his bedroom door was shut, like hers. 
He did not know why he wished this; perhaps he was 
afraid to go up there and stand in the light. He re- 
mained for some minutes at the foot of the stair, but 
he had no lucid thought about anything now, for since 
the fading of the vision of himself at the table his mind 
had become almost a blank. He was obeying impulses 
automatically. 


299 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ Floretta/’ he called again, for the third time, and 
now the harsh note of fear was in his voice. 

He had an impression that he must have been at the 
foot of the stair calling to her for an hour or more. 
The impulse that carried him up was the impulse that 
makes an animal look on its dead mate and pass on. 
Floretta had not told him she was dying; she had never 
complained to him about herself ; she had not, as she 
went up-stairs to rest on the Sunday afternoon, ex* 
pressed her premonition, ‘‘ I have made my last Com- 
munion, Douglas.” Yet he felt that when he should 
find her she would not speak to him. He envied her, 
not with the envy he had towards Gilbert Camoys, but 
the envy of such as are beyond it all in the blissful 
nothingness. 

He closed his own door before knocking on his 
sister’s. It was a mere tap with the tips of his fingers. 
He did not tap again, nor call her name again, but 
very quietly turned the handle and opened the door a 
little way. 

Then he gazed down the stair. He could have seen 
into the room had he looked, but he did not look, and 
there was no trembling upon him. He thought of 
Floretta as one who had at last reached the haven 
where she would be. If he could have followed her 
by euthanasia he would not have hesitated. The final 
tiredness was upon him. And he had begged. His 
mother was in heaven, but she would weep when she 
saw him sink to that. 


300 


The Sacred Cup 

Still gazing down the stair, he pushed open the door 
with his left arm. Even then he did not at once look 
in. But the impulse had to be obeyed. 

His sister, still wearing the dress in which she had 
knelt beside Camoys at the altar, was lying on her side 
on the bed, her face towards the wall. Shulmere might 
never have entered the room had not the blind been 
drawn down. His slow steps across the floor were 
noiseless, and he did not utter a word as he stood by 
the bed. 

The instant he put his hand on her cheek he started 
back. He had not thought that death was so cold. 
And in that supreme moment all the wretched hatred 
and malice which had been his curse, preventing him 
from going forth into the greater light and holding the 
strengthening hands of noble souls, fell from him like 
a foul garment as he stood on the threshold of the 
reality and the mystery of eternity. 

He crept out of the house, and went into Vallum 
wood, telling no one that his sister was dead. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


ShuIvMKRK had been for nearly two hours in the 
cleared space, where he had stolen Lottie Ollett’s letter 
from Mr. Jerred’s pocket, when Margaret Lyson found 
him there. 

It was a day lo keep in the open air, apart from the 
desire to seek ease for the blow that had fallen upon 
her, and Margaret had gone across to the cottages on 
the farther side of the wood, finding solace for her own 
pain in comforting the poor. 

She was glad she had not asked Mr. Jerred to say 
why he had repelled Gilbert from the altar. She was 
a very loyal woman, and though she craved to learn 
the truth, she would have reproached herself bitterly 
had she made any inquiry before speaking to Gilbert 
of what she had heard. In showing Mr. Jerred the 
anonymous note she had already gone too far, but she 
had been led into it imperceptibly, not suspecting at 
first that it could be true, yet gradually yielding to 
curiosity, until suddenly the worst was revealed to her. 

She was returning home at mid-day from her visit to 
the cottagers, and not caring to take the main path, she 
entered the lower part of the wood, intending to take 
301 


302 


The Sacred Cup 

a diagonal course across to the Lamberfield side. She 
heard no unusual sound; all the noises were of nature, 
and familiar to her. 

She was passing the opening to the cleared space 
when she caught a glimpse of a man lying on the 
ground in there. This was not an exceptional thing 
to see, but there was something extraordinary in the 
man’s appearance, and Margaret went back and looked 
in. 

It was Douglas Shulmere, and she saw that he was 
holding a revolver in his right hand. She went up to 
him and spoke to him, but he did not move. There 
was a wound in his left temple, over the eye, and blood 
had come from it, but was stagnant now. Margaret, 
although sure he was dead, knelt down beside him and 
touched his face. All her spiritual and intellectual re- 
sources came to her aid, and kept her calm; and she 
unconsciously claimed kinship in suffering and frailty 
with this young man who had taken his own life. 

She looked at him again, and her pity and the great 
wonderment of her soul’s stillness freed her for a time 
from her own sorrow, and ever after put it in proper 
relation with the universal pain of human life. So 
that Shulmere, all unknown to himself, did make some 
atonement for the misery he had thrust upon her. 

One of his eyes was covered with blood; the other 
stared wide open. Margaret reverently tried to close 
it, but could not. She stood up, to go and tell what 
had happened, and it was then she saw that Shulmere 


303 


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was grasping a letter in his left hand. It was I^ottie’s 
letter to Floretta, but of this Margaret was not yet 
aware, never having heard of it, or suspected its 
existence. 

As she looked down at it she caught the name of 
Camoys. Her eyes wandered to the surrounding 
undergrowths, and then they fell again upon the 
letter. It was crumpled and soiled, as though it had 
been carried about loose in a pocket for a long while, 
and often opened. Margaret thought it might be his 
statement as to why he had destroyed himself; or it 
might be a letter some one had written to him in which 
it had been necessary to mention Gilbert's name. 

Still she could not tear herself away; and she was 
now listening intently for any sound in the wood. 
She fancied she heard a distant footfall; it was prob- 
ably a workman going home to dinner. She connected 
the letter in some indefinable way with the anonymous 
note she had received that morning; and Gilbert's 
name in both of them seemed to suggest an explana- 
tion of Mr. Jerred's action. She looked down again, 
and then saw the words, in childlike feminine hand- 
writing, ‘ ‘ / have never told anybody but you it was Mr, 
Camoys. . . ." 

The footsteps were growing more distinct; yet Mar- 
garet did not go away from the dead man. But she 
was not now looking at the letter. She felt that it per- 
sonally concerned her, and that she ought not to be 
ashamed of having read so much. But she could not 


304 


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have read it entirely without taking it out of his hand, 
and this she could not do. 

The writing was familiar to her, and her mind made 
an intense search for identification. The footsteps were 
now close to the cleared space, and as Margaret hastened 
to the opening, ‘‘ It is Tottie Ollett’s writing,” she said 
to herself. 

She was just in time to see Arnold Kanies passing 
through the wood, and called to him. He strode down 
to her, and asked if anything was wrong. 

” You are pale. Miss Tyson! ” 

She told him, and added, ” I am afraid nothing can 
be done. But go and make sure.” 

” Stay where you are,” said Karnes. 

He hurried into the grassy plot. Margaret followed 
him, but he had been a minute or so by the body before 
she got there. As she approached she saw him thrust 
a piece of paper into his pocket. 

” It is too late,” she said, ” to do anything? ” 

” Yes — yes. He has been dead for some time. 
See.” Karnes lifted the right arm. ” He must not 
be removed until the constable has seen him. Please 
go home. Miss Tyson!” — Karnes stood between her 
and the body — ”and leave this terrible affair to me. I 
will do all that can be done now.” 

But she did not go. 

” A letter was in his hand,” she said. 

‘‘ Yes ; he had evidently been reading it just before 
he killed himself.” 


305 


The Sacred Cup 

It is not/' said Margaret, in his hand now.’’ 

‘‘ No — it is in my pocket,’' Karnes answered at once. 

He would have deceived her in this if he could for 
her own sake, but since she had seen the letter it was 
impossible for him to deny knowledge of it. 

And she was not a woman to be trifled with; she 
could bear any truth, and candour was as natural to 
her as breathing. 

I glanced at it,” he said, and caught a word or 
two — and if it should concern living persons — as I 
think it does — it seems undesirable that it should fall 
into the hands of the police, and so be made public at 
the coroner’s inquest.” 

You are going to suppress it then ? ” 

''Yes — and I hope you will say nothing about it. 
Miss Ly son.” 

" But if I am questioned as to whether I saw a letter 
in his hand ? ” 

" That is improbable. Only we two know that he 
possessed it; and whatever the law might think of our 
silence with regard to it, I am persuaded,” said Karnes 
earnestly, " that morally we have a complete justifica- 
tion.” 

"You may be able,” said Margaret quietly, "to 
speak confidently for yourself. Indeed I am sure you 
would not do anything wrong, and I am not afraid 
that you will draw me into any unlawful act. But if I 
am incurring some moral responsibility I don’t think 
you should expect me to go into it blindfold.” 


3o6 


The Sacred Cup 

“Oh, but it is quite unnecessary,’’ he urged, “for 
you to tell any one that you were the first to discover 
the body. You need not say you have seen it. That 
can all be left to me! It is very simple, you know — you 
have only to go home, keep quiet, and try to forget it.” 

“ So you don’t wish me to be called as a witness at 
the inquest.” 

“ You would n’t like that. Miss Tyson! ” 

“ I should not have any objection to giving evi- 
dence,” she replied. 

“Oh, but that squalid business is not for you!” 
cried Karnes. “ Now do go home, and take my advice, 
I implore you! It could n’t possibly do any good for 
you to let it be known that you had found the poor 
fellow.” He put his hand under her arm, and she 
moved slowly towards the opening. “ You said once 
you thought I could keep my head in a crisis. — Ah, 
and that is true of you, too! ” 

“You are scarcely treating me, Mr. Karnes, as 
though you thought me capable of much self-command. 
And would the suppression of the letter be fair to this 
unhappy man’s memory ? ” 

“ It could not do him any injustice. Every one 
would be astonished to learn that it had been in his 
possession. No harm whatever can be done by my 
retaining it.” 

Margaret, now outside the circle of undergrowths, 
said, “ You appear to attach great importance to it. I 
trust you implicitly, Mr. Karnes, and I cannot go away 


The Sacred Cup 


307 


feeling uncandid towards you — so I must tell you I 
have read certain words in the letter, and they seem to 
concern me in a personal sense more closely than I care 
to speak of to any one. I gather that you have read 
the letter ? ' ' 

‘‘Yes.’’ 

“ But you could not have read it in the few moments 
before I followed you in just now. You were therefore 
previously aware of its existence ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes. Oh, I beg of you. Miss Lyson ” 

“ You see,” she said, “ I am not losing my presence 
of mind. Do please give me credit for a little courage. 
The letter is in Tot tie Ollett’s handwriting. Was it 
written to this poor man ? ” 

“ No.” 

“To Mr. Jerred?” 

“ No.” 

“To you?” 

“ No.” 

“To Mr. Camoys?” 

“No,” said Karnes firmly. He drew the letter 
partly from his pocket, but immediately put it back 
again. “ It is literally true, I believe, that Mr. Camoys 
has never seen this.” He flinched under the sad 
scrutiny of her eyes. “ I must be frank with you. 
Miss Tyson! Although the letter was not written to 
Mr. Camoys, and the writer never intended that he 
should read it — yet he has been shown a copy of it.” 

“ To whom, then, was it written ? ” 


3o8 


The Sacred Cup 

To Miss Shulmere.” 

‘‘ And she gave it to Mr. Jerred? 

Yes — it belongs to Mr. Jerred,’' said Karnes, a 
prey to emotions in violent strife. 

'' And it was Mr. Jerred who showed a copy of it to 
Mr. Camoys ? 

Karnes made no reply. He looked up through the 
wood, wishing some one would appear, so that he 
might shout, and thus put an end to these fatal slips 
he was making. 

“ I don’t want you to be seen here, Miss Lyson! 
Your father would be grieved if you were to be mixed 
up in this. A workman may pass at any moment. 
Do go home! ” 

‘‘ And so the letter is to be destroyed ? ” 

'' I did not say that. I am going to suppress it, be- 
cause it is a private letter, and its publicity could do 
no good.” 

‘‘You do not,” said Margaret, “say whether its 
suppression would be an in j ury to me ? ’ ’ 

“ 1 cannot believe that it would, Miss Tyson; and in 
any case, since it belongs to Jerred, and was stol — 
taken from him somehow — it is for him to say whether 
you should read it or not.” 

“ Will you let me take it to Mr. Jerred and ask him 
whether I may read it? ” 

Karnes hesitated. “ You won’t think me discour- 
teous,” he said pleadingly ^ “but I cannot let it go 
out of my possession.” 


309 


The Sacred Cup 

‘‘ I am sure you would not be rude to me, Mr. 
Karnes. Shall I send some one to help you ? ’’ 

No — please don’t speak to any one of what you 
have seen. I,eave it all to me now. I shall go to 
Wanlett’s farm, and then to the village, and ask Mr. 
Jerred to break the news to his sister.” 

He stood at the entrance to the cleared space, watch- 
ing Margaret go up through the wood. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

But she did not at once go home. She was living 
in the future rather than in the present; the trees had 
still solace for her, but only as silent companions in the 
feeling that she would have to bear this trial through 
life. Had she been in Muntham she would have wan- 
dered into the cathedral, and it would have had almost 
the same effect upon her, teaching her the lesson of 
these strong oaks and elms — the essential solemnity at 
the heart of things; the charity that moves in quiet- 
ness like its own soul; the pitiful littleness of human 
actions. 

If Camoys had known Margaret as she knew herself 
then, he would have gone to her, and said with perfect 
simplicity, I am guilty, and have no excuse to offer ” 
— nothing more: leaving the rest to her. She could 
not have hidden her wound, but she would not have 
forced it upon him. 

It seemed to her childish to be dismayed by it now, 
at the first blow, because it was for all the days and 
nights that should be given to her. If she should live 
to be an old woman it would be with her on her death- 
bed. Having imagination, which shows us the way in 


310 


3 ” 


The Sacred Cup 

and way out of all sorrows, she saw the end from the 
beginning, and all the road and the thorns, and the 
clouds, and the sunshine and the roses also, and the 
dew of the morning. She prayed to be self-possessed. 
When she met Gilbert, if he should lose his composure, 
she would not wish to stay with him. She had no de- 
sire to see him in humiliation before her; what he had 
done was as irrevocable as the death of Douglas Shul- 
mere, and left no room for resentment. 

She must hope, and have courage; that was all she 
could do, and in time there might be healing balm, 
even resignation. Her father had said we may get 
used to anything, until it becomes a second nature to 
us; it was not very profound philosophy, and he had 
scarcely consistently acted up to it, but Margaret had 
insight enough to deepen it for her own partial de- 
liverance. Everything in human consciousness is quite 
common; all the difference lies in some being able to 
give it the grace and orderliness of an art of life. It 
does not thus become new, but we feel that we are 
using worthily a celestial secret breathed into the world 
for our peace. 

Margaret, while still in the wood, met Mrs. Hoddi- 
nott going to see her eldest daughter on the other side 
of it, and stopped to speak with her. 

Are you well enough, Mrs. Hoddinott, to walk so 
far in this w^arm weather ? 

‘'I’m really not, Miss, if the truth was known, but 
Annie wants to see me, and her own mother can’t 


312 


The Sacred Cup 

refuse at such a time. You ’re not lookin’ as rested 
as usual yourself, Miss.” 

“ I am not feeling so rested as I might be,” 
Margaret said with a .smile that touched the old 
woman. “But I am still rather young — ” She 
sighed. 

“ Forty year younger than me if a day,” said the 
shoemaker’s wife. 

“Forty years!” Margaret glanced through the 
branches overhanging the path. “ That seems a long 
time. Shall I give you my arm ? ” 

“ No, thank you. Miss; it ’s not my legs, but my 
back that ’s wore out; and there ’s a young gentleman 
along there seekin’ you, no doubt.” 

“ Please remind your daughter that I wish her to 
send for our doctor. I have spoken to him, and he 
will come to her at once.” 

“I’m sure he will, Miss, and it ’s wonderful kind 
of you, but when there ’s another little stranger in the 
family us old grannies can give them big doctors a 
wrinkle or two.” 

“ I think so myself,” said Margaret, smiling as she 
went on. 

When she got to the end of the wood, she saw her 
father and Gilbert standing together looking over the 
village. It was in commotion; women and children 
were running to and from Floretta Shulmere’s cottage. 
Sir Ardenne Tyson and Camoys appeared to be trying 
to make out what had happened. Margaret concluded 


313 


The Sacred Cup 

that the news of Douglas’s death had reached the vil- 
lage, and perhaps his sister had fainted. 

She drew back under the trees, not wishing to be 
seen by the two watchers just outside the wood. It 
was not Gilbert, but her father she wished to avoid. 
Her father appeared to be shading his eyes with his 
hand, but Margaret knew he was smoothing down his 
eyebrows; she saw him wet the tip of his finger on 
his tongue. He might speak with graceful, detached 
sympathy of the young man’s fate, but it would be to 
him merely an unpleasant incident, and he would be 
offended if it were mentioned at Chantry House. 

She heard Gilbert say, ‘ ‘ Something seems to have 
gone wrong down there.” She noticed that he was 
pale and haggard, but he did not look vicious or ugly. 
He did not bear the signs of remorse that endure, that 
mark a man for life. He never vrould bear them. He 
did not believe he had done anything for which he de- 
served to be branded. Had Margaret’s love for him 
been destroyed by this revelation of his treatment of 
Lottie Ollett she would have seen in him only cruelty, 
selfishness, hardness of heart. 

She went up to the low stone wall by the Wivelscote 
road. The last time she had been here she had smiled 
at seeing Mr. Karnes dashing past, Mr. Jerred trying 
to keep step with him. She leaned her elbow on the 
top of the wall and looked over into the road, and then 
farther away to the convent in the valley. It seemed 
very peaceful among its trees and gardens ; she had 


314 


The Sacred Cup 

been there once, and remembered the stately courtyard, 
where one could feel so shut in from the world, and the 
beautiful statue of the Blessed Virgin at the end of a 
long cool corridor, with a pink light burning before it, 
and lilies at its feet. 

But her thoughts clung to the ground on which she 
stood by the wall. It was here that Gilbert had first 
told her of his love, and, although she had not then 
promised to be his wife, she had not doubted his sin- 
cerity. She did not doubt it even now. But she 
understood what his love meant, what it had always 
meant, and what from its very nature it must mean. 
Was it enough ? There could be no great change in 
it from a closer union; it was honest so far as it 
went, and she could not expect him to be other than 
himself. 

She had never been very exacting, and the pedestal 
upon which, in her maidenly instinct of idealisation, 
she had placed him had not been high. He had been 
cast down from it, and he could never again be to her 
what he had been; but she felt so little bitterness 
against him that she believed his slightest touch would 
crush it all out. 

She was beginning to wonder whether after all she 
understood herself. She would not see her path clearly 
until she was quite alone, and her atmosphere of se- 
renity had been restored. Her head drooped as she 
found herself thinking of him as a man on whom not 
every one woula cry shame; and she closed her eyes 


3^5 


The Sacred Cup 

in miserable confusion at the conviction that she had 
not ceased to care for him. She was in this sad pos- 
ture when Gilbert came up alone on the grass on the 
other side of the wall. 

'' Margaret! he said, and was about to leap over to 
her, but she held up her hand. 

“ Please stay where you are,’’ she said. 

He stood by the wall, looking at her, and she went 
up to it, standing a short distance from him. 

I ’ve been with your father. He has gone home. 
The villagers are buzzing about like bees ; I think 
something must have happened at the Shulmeres’. 
The people seem to be frightened. One of them has 
just fetched the Rector from the church. He has gone 
into the Shulmeres’ cottage.” She did not speak; her 
face was averted from him. Camoys leaned over the 
wall and cried out, Margaret! have you heard about 
yesterday morning in church? ” 

” Yes. Don’t speak of it! ” she said, almost turning 
her back to him. 

“ But I must speak of it, Margaret! I want to tell 
you everything — the whole story. I ’ve deceived you, 
but only in this, Margaret — and, O my God, whatever 
happens now I ’m glad to make a clean breast of it 
all! ” 

“There is a dead man in the wood,” she said. 
“Douglas Shulmere has killed himself. His body is 
lying down there. Mr. Karnes is with him.” She 
was silent awhile before she added: “In his hand. 


3i 6 The Sacred Cup 

when he shot himself, he was holding a letter, written 
by lyOttie Ollett, to his sister/' 

‘ ‘ Karnes has shown it to you ? ' ' 

“No. He refused to let me read it. I found the 
body, but Mr. Karnes took the letter from his hand, 
and is going to return it to Mr. Jerred." 

“ Yes~Miss Shulmere gave it to the Rector. That 's 
how it all came out. Margaret! Mr. Jerred showed 
me a copy; I tore it up. Oh, I confess I wanted to 
keep the whole thing quiet — but now I 'll tell you 
everything! " 

“ I don't wish you to do so." 

“ But the Rector says I ought to have told you from 
the first. That is why he passed me by at the altar." 

“ I think you are mistaken," said Margaret. “ Mr. 
Jerred would not so act out of consideration for me 
only. He was thinking of others who have suffered — 

who must continue to suffer " 

“ But it can be made up to them, Margaret! " 

“ Oh, don't try to excuse yourself," she cried, turn- 
ing to him. “ That is what I have been fearing — that 
is why I asked you not to speak of it! " 

“But I may be condemned unreasonably," said 
Camoys, “ if I am forced to be silent! " He sprang 
over the wall, and stood by her. “ You must let me 
give my version of it, Margaret! " 

She moved from him, but he was instantly by her 
side again. 

“ You do not deny ? " 


The Sacred Cup 


317 


“No.” 

Then there is no more to be said. This cannot be 
discussed. All you could do would be to attempt to 
make some excuse — and I don’t want you to do that! ” 
‘‘ But you ’re not going to give me up, Margaret ? ” 
he pleaded. I would n’t have said anything against 
anybody except myself. I ’ve been a scoundrel, and 

concealed it from you, but that was because ” 

Oh, can’t you understand,” she said, how I see 
you just now? You may love me — you may be the 
man I love, God help me! — but I can only think of you 
as the betrayer of that poor girl! ” 

” Margaret! ” 

In his fear of losing her he would have asserted his 
manhood over his intelligence by taking her in his 
arms and showing her the vehemence of his affections, 
but she gently repelled him, and went on alone by the 
wall. She came to a gap in it and passed out of his 
sight. 

Knowing the leisureliness of her father’s movements 
she half expected to overtake him if he had gone home 
by the road which intersected the highway. She did 
not, indeed, wish to join him just now, and in any 
event she could not consult him as to how she should 
act; but having seen him with Gilbert she felt some 
curiosity as to whether he had anything to say to her. 
She had crossed the dusty highroad, and was in the 
cool tree-shaded lane which was accounted part of the 
village, as distinguished from the parish, when she 


3i 8 The Sacred Cup 

saw him standing at the smithy speaking with the 
blacksmith. 

Sir Ardenne Lyson was bending forward scratching 
on the ground with his walking-stick the meaningless 
figures of a disturbed mind. The blacksmith had been 
giving him the news of the death of the brother and 
sister, and it so dislocated his pose of self-complacency 
that he was considering whether it would be possible 
for him to sleep that night at Chantry House. It was 
very annoying to have such things thrust upon one. 
What with Margaret's unfilial conduct in desiring to 
leave him, and now these exceedingly unpleasant oc- 
currences at his very door, he felt he had been called 
to that exquisitely torturing form of martyrdom which 
can only be experienced by highly refined and sensitive 
natures. He had not deserved such treatment at the 
hands of his gods, and he could not see that they had 
any purpose in it. Stoicism was a coarse creed, unfit 
for the cultured mind conscious of its personal ade- 
quacy. The world was all wrong, given up to melo- 
drama and big-drum-beating; a gentleman could not 
harmonise himself in it; there seemed to be no possi- 
bility of finding a place of ideal rest. He had no wish 
to be out of it, but he did wish that people would 
arrange their dying and killing less disagreeably. It 
would not have been so bad had the Shul meres been 
totally unknown to him; but he had taken a certain 
interest in them, and had once or twice spoken to the 
wretched man, and would have continued to notice 


319 


The Sacred Cup 

him had his manner been as respectful as that of the 
ether villagers. Now the brother and sister had 
thrown themselves upon Sir Ardenne I^yson’s atten- 
tion with such a blatant familiarity that it was im- 
possible to avoid them. They affected him like a 
vulgarity forcing itself into his delicately-shimmered 
atmosphere after a morning of self-satisfied distinction 
with his most precious authors. It was as though 
while he gazed upon a lovely landscape it had become 
strewn with corpses. All this was unendurable. In- 
deed, indeed it was extremely vexing. He was the 
pink of courtesy, but he was so upset he forgot to 
thank the blacksmith for his information. 

He did not notice, as he went on, that Margaret was 
only a few yards behind him. Had he looked back 
before getting out of the lane he would have seen her 
in conversation with the blacksmith. He was glad to 
perceive that the commotion in the village had some- 
what subsided, and he was faintly pleased with the 
people for their good taste in moving away from the 
gates of Chantry House as he approached them. They 
whispered awesomely among themselves, but no one 
would have ventured to speak to him without being 
first addressed. He walked past them as though he 
were perfectly unaware of anything unusual having 
occurred. What it might mean to them he did not 
pause to consider. Their terrors by the way were not 
like unto his terrors. His thoughts about these country 
folk were much the same as the thoughts of a superior 


320 


The Sacred Cup 

European among inoffensive savage tribes. They 
could not help being dull and stupid, and it was natural 
to them to herd together like terrified sheep. 

A servant told him that Mrs. Lewknor was in the 
drawing-room; she had called to see Miss Tyson. In 
ordinary circumstances he would have left the intoler- 
able old parrot to chatter to herself till she was tired of 
waiting; but with these objectionable events depressing 
him, and making the idea of seclusion distasteful, even 
Mrs. Tewknor was better than nothing by way of relief. 

The screechy panic of her exclamation, ‘‘ Oh! how 
horrible, how horrible!’' the moment he entered the 
room made him almost repent of his consideration 
towards her. He assumed his most graceful air of 
indifference, and ignored her obvious craving for 
gruesome details. The weather, he remarked, was 
delightful. 

Mrs. Tewknor, perceiving she had made a mistake 
and intensified his fright, rattled on about many things 
which had nothing to do with what was uppermost in 
their minds. Sir Ardenne Tyson helped her to keep 
up the poor little game of shunning the truth. They 
could not delude themselves. Each quite well knew 
that the other knew; their hearts quailed within them 
at every sound from the village. But the woman was 
afraid to offend the man by referring to the ugly thing; 
and the man tried to put it on one side for his own 
sake. 

He sat in an attitude of studied grace on a chair for 


321 


The Sacred Cup 

which he had paid a hundred guineas; they had given 
him the history of it, and the document was as inter- 
esting to him as a Pauline epistle. He was facing a 
window from which, had he stood up at it, he could 
have seen the Shulmeres* cottage. Mrs Lewknor, 
remembering how he disliked restless people, was try- 
ing to be very quiet on a huge dead-gold couch where 
she looked like an ingeniously constructed old-woman 
doll that had been made to do nothing but nod its head 
and pretend to put a monocle in its glaring eye. 

At last Sir Adenne Lyson stepped up to the window 
and looked out. Had he continued to converse, or 
commented on what he saw, Mrs. I^ewknor might have 
braced herself to the hardship of remaining perched on 
the couch; but he was silent. This was too much for 
her morbid curiosity, and she darted forward to his 
side. The sky, he observed, was quite Whistlerian. 
And then Margaret and Mr. Jerred emerged from the 
lane, and walked to the house of death. 

“ Oh! — will she go in?'’ Mrs. Lewknor said shiver- 
ing. 

“That, I presume, is her purpose,” Sir Ardenne 
Tyson replied. 

Margaret and Mr. Jerred went up through the neg- 
lected garden, and entered the cottage. 

“ I could n’t do it myself,” Mrs. Lewknor exclaimed. 
“ But dear Margaret is so courageous! ” 

“She will presently, no doubt,” said Sir Ardenne 
Tyson, “ bring the smell of the grave into my house.” 


322 


The Sacred Cup 


He withdrew from the window, and moved to an- 
other, from which only the grounds and the curves of 
the hills could be seen. Here he stood in silence 
awhile. Then he crossed the room, and turning at the 
door said, ' ‘ I understand that you called to see my 

daughter. Pray be so kind as to allow me to ’ ’ 

Certainly, Sir Ardenne! Go to your room by all 
means and have a nice rest after this shock — I beg 
your pardon — but you look so pale and worried! ’’ 

He lifted up his head with proud surprise. 

I am in excellent health, thank you,’' he remarked, 
“ and there is no reason, that I know of, why I should 
be shocked.” 

” Of course not! ” Mrs. Lewknor cried. 

When he was gone she returned to the window 
overlooking the little house in which Floretta had been 
so thankful to lie down with her face to the wall. 

Several women and children had gathered by the 
hedge round the garden. They parted, some coming 
forward and some moving away, as Arnold Karnes 
strode up. He spoke to a woman, and hurried into 
the house. After that Mrs. Tewknor could not stay 
indoors. Without ringing for a servant, she went out 
on to the lawn, and there strolled to and fro for a few 
minutes pretending to be absorbed in the flowers. She 
glanced up at the windows of Chantry House; no one 
seemed to be looking out. She slipped through the 
gates; and now Margaret, the Rector, and Arnold 
Karnes were leaving the cottage. 


323 


The Sacred Cup 

The constable locked the door, taking out the key. 
Margaret joined the group of women and children, talk- 
ing with them; so that Mrs. Tewknor could not go to 
her. The three men moved away together in the 
direction of the highroad; and just then Mrs. Verdley, 
who had been for a long walk with little David, and 
who knew nothing of these sorrows, came down by the 
church, and Margaret advanced to meet her. Mrs. 
Lewknor stepped forward from the gates, but Margaret 
bowed coldly to her, and passed on. 

“ Why are all the people about Floretta’s cottage? ’’ 
Mrs. Verdley inquired. 

You have not heard the sad news ? ’’ 

No, miss — what has happened ? ” 

“ Tet us go on to the Rectory, and I will tell you. 
Don’t appear to be agitated. They are taking it very 
quietly now, I am glad to think, and it would be such 
a pity for us not to set them a good example in self- 
possession. Is baby asleep ? ” 

** Bless his heart, no! Took at his beautiful eyes 
smiling at you.” 

“ Please let me take him,” said Margaret. 

She carried Tottie Ollett’s baby through the village. 
All the villagers looked on, and an old woman said, 
“ That little one will never lack for a friend as long as 
Miss Tyson ’s alive.” Gilbert Camoys, leaning miser- 
ably on the stone wall by the wood, saw her with his 
child in her arms. He watched her till she entered 
the Rectory gate and was lost in the avenue of shrubs. 


324 


The Sacred Cup 

Then, his gaze wandering homeward, he saw Mrs. 
Tewknor going wearily along the Alard road, and he 
felt very sorry for her. 

He was still by the wall when the Rector and Arnold 
Karnes strolled together by the Wivelscote road. They 
stopped at the path leading through the wood, and 
held each other’s hands a long while before parting. 
Camoys had never known a friendship between men 
like theirs, and in the clearer light that was dawning 
upon him he could perceive something of the unselfish- 
ness on which it was based. It was a lesson for him, 
and there was hope in his wish to learn it. To these 
two friends it was not what they could gain, the one 
from the other, but what they could give, the one to 
the other, in full measure pressed down: so gaining 
each more than he gave. Here was the perfect law of 
self-emptying, and as yet Camoys could make merely 
a blurred reading of it, but this day’s events had 
brought him nearer to it than he had ever been. He 
identified it in some way with his belief in Margaret’s 
forgiveness, and it therefore brought her nearer to him 
also. He was not in thought making a bargain with 
her. He could say, I have sinned”; he could say, 

‘ ‘ I want to look at what I have done from your stand- 
point.” But he could not play the hypocrite, no, not 
if the consequence were to be their final separation. 
Nor did he feel a jealous pang in the reflection that 
Karnes seemed in one sense to have been in closer 
harmony with her mind than he had himself been. It 


325 


The Sacred Cup 

was impossible for him to accuse Karnes of meanness 
after his action of pure disinterestedness in taking that 
letter from the dead man’s hand and refusing to let 
Margaret read it. He went further along by the wall, 
and on turning again he saw that Mr. Jerred had gone 
back, and Karnes was walking rapidly towards Wivel- 
scote. He nodded to Camoys, sang out with a large- 
hearted brotherliness that was totally free from scorn 
or condescension, ‘‘ Hullo! How do you do? I^ovely 
weather, is n’t it?” and would have passed on, but 
Camoys said, “They seem to be in trouble down 
there.” 

“ Yes” — Karnes hardly stopped. “ But the Rector 
will pull them together when he gets them in church 
on Sunday.” 

Camoys strained forward. “ Have they brought 
Shulmere home ? ” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ I suppose his sister is very much ” 

“ Oh, no. We need n’t bother about that. She is 
dead,” said Karnes, and strode on. 

Camoys after this was encompassed by a deeper awe. 
It was without rather than within him, but it was 
drawing near, and a little more self-knowledge would 
have shown him that its influence must be permanent. 
Its permanence was on the line of the act he had striven 
to forget. Death had put to silence the two persons 
who had originally held the secret — the secret of that 
flower-strewn grave down there — and yet the case 


326 


The Sacred Cup 

against him was stronger now than it had been while 
they lived. Other forces had been at work — forces 
which so often make or mar a man without his being 
aware of their immutable power, their terrible progres- 
sion. Camoys was beginning to understand; but Mar- 
garet’s cry, ‘‘You may be the man I love,” rang in his 
ears, taking at last the more blessed form, “ You are 
the man I love,” and this prevented him from feeling 
beaten. The shock of being suddenly compelled to see 
ourselves, when a mask to which we had grown accus- 
tomed has been torn off, as a loved one sees us is not 
necessarily overwhelming, or even disheartening. So 
much depends upon the loved one. And such a nature 
as Camoys’ could not undergo any radical transforma- 
tion. There had, however, been a change, and he 
could never go back to the fool’s paradise of moral 
obliviousness. He had always had the courage of life 
in its commoner aspects, and now his heart was set 
towards the higher courage which Margaret possessed. 
What he had hitherto regarded as her peculiarities — 
her devotion to the quiet life, her contempt for the 
petty conventional methods of self-expression, her ab- 
horrence of injustice — all these he now saw to be the 
essential elements of fine character. And he was ready 
to go to her and say, “ My own way takes me only so 
far; lead me in yours.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

On the day that Katie Thurlow and Walter Goodacre 
were to have been married, Floretta and Douglas Shul- 
mere were laid in the same grave in Lamberfield 
churchyard; so that the white flowers at Floretta's last 
Communion served also to dress her burial. Mr. 
Jerred read the service, and all the villagers were 
mourners, but only two or three young girls seemed to 
be crying. There are no tears for the supreme touches 
of fate. 

Mr. Jerred made Katie Mrs. Goodacre in the follow- 
ing week, and gave her a tea service, all royal blue and 
incredible gold, “ bought at a most respectable genuine 
shop.’' Margaret and Gilbert were at the wedding, 
and Mrs. Eewknor was with them, a radiant woman 
again, making much of her eyeglass. The bride and 
bridegroom were taken triumphantly to their new 
home in an enormous waggon decorated with all the 
colours of the floral rainbow, and drawn by two ex- 
ceedingly sleek farm horses covered with rosettes and 
evergreens and bells. There would have been four 
horses, Walter said, but they could n’t find enough 
bells to go round. As the waggon was starting, amid 
327 


328 


The Sacred Cup 

huzzas and a blinding shower of rice and old slippers, 
Katie, braving the storm, nearly fell out in her de- 
sperate attempt to give the Rector a farewell kiss. 

Margaret was at the Rectory the same evening, and 
had a tranquil conversation with Mr. Jerred. She did 
not directly speak of his having passed Gilbert by at 
the altar; but her sweet, serious eyes were on his as 
she told him very quietly that her marriage would take 
place on the date as arranged. It would not be in 
Lamberfield church, but in the cathedral; the Bishop, 
as an old friend of her father, had written offering to 
marry them. This she said without pride and without 
apology; she was taking for granted Mr. Jerred’s sym- 
pathetic understanding of her position. 

She went on to say, speaking always as to one in 
whom she could perfectly trust, that she had been to 
see Roland Margesson and his mother, and had told 
them everything. She had kept nothing back; nor 
had she asked them to give any promise of secrecy. 
If they should think it well to be silent, it would be 
kind and generous of them, and she would be grateful, 
but she had made no request, leaving it quite to them- 
selves. 

She was going to see them again, and Gilbert would 
then be with her. Mrs. Margesson would be provided 
for, and a niece who had lately come to visit her from 
another country, and to whom she had become at- 
tached, would live with her in future. Roland was to 
carry out his wish to take a situation in a town. 


329 


The Sacred Cup 

I — we shall not forget them, Mr. Jerred.’' 

He had no words. He held her hand, and would 
have kissed it had he not been afraid that his tears 
might fall upon it. This was their last meeting in the 
Rectory, and his impression of it was that woman’s 
love is past finding out. She was truly the glory of 
man, and never more so than when she stood by his 
side in defeat and shame — turning his defeat into vic- 
tory, his shame almost into honour. Her love was 
greater than his acts, and shone upon him like the 
mercy of Heaven. Mr. Jerred could not fathom the 
illimitable power of a good woman’s love, but he could 
give her his silent reverential homage. 

As I am to be Gilbert’s wife I must now share the 
responsibility. We can never atone for the wrong that 
has been done. Just now, as I was coming to see you, 
I passed Lottie’s grave, and knelt beside it. Mr. 
Jerred, I don’t think, if she understands, she would say 
I ought not to marry Gilbert.” 

” I don’t say that either, Miss Tyson. I have never 
thought that. It is true I have doubted his worthi- 
ness to be your companion through life.” 

” But may we not think too much of that, on either 
side ? I am sure, if you had asked me to marry you, 
and I had loved you in that way, I should have felt 
unworthy to be your wife. You would n’t have under- 
stood it so, and I must tell you I don’t understand it 
so in the case of Gilbert and myself. I love him, Mr. 
Jerred, and he loves me, and needs me. No good could 


330 


The Sacred Cup 

be done by our separating, and I think we shall be able 
to do more for each other as husband and wife than 
any one else could do for us if we were to go in diiBferent 
ways.’’ 

And then she spoke, with the same frankness and 
simplicity, of the child; and Mr. Jerred said in faltering 
accents, “ I should be very sorry. Miss I^yson, if little 
David were to be taken from us. I am a childless 
man, and always will be, and he has grown up so 
wonderfully about my heart.” 

Thank you, dear friend,” was all that Margaret 
could say. 

Mr. Jerred the next day went to the episcopal palace 
and handed to the Bishop his resignation of the living 
of lyamberfield. He was profoundly depressed, but 
blamed no one for this loss of his beautiful home, and 
his beloved garden, and the dear ones who were all his 
children and his friends. 

The humble soul, composed of love aud fear. 

Begins at home, and lays the burden there, 

When doctrines disagree ; 

He says, in things which use hath justly got, 

“ I am a scandal to the Church,’’ and not 
‘‘ The Church is so to me.” 

The Bishop accepted his resignation, and said with 
ofl&cial kindness: 

“ I am bound to say, Jerred, I think you have done 
the right thing. It would have been most unpleasant 


331 


The Sacred Cup 

for all concerned had you remained at Lamberfield after 
what has occurred. But what are you going to do 
now ? ' ’ 

I would gladly accept a curacy, my lord.” 

But would not that make people talk ? ” 

'' There might, perhaps, be something for me to do 
in another diocese, if your lordship would be so kind 
as to use your good offices in my behalf.” 

Certainly; I shall be pleased to do so. We seem 
to have escaped a public scandal, and it is extremely 
fortunate. Miss Tyson and Mr. Camoys are to be 
married in the cathedral, and that should finally silence 
any busybodies who may be brewing mischief. Tet 
me see; the marriage is to be on the twenty-fourth of 
next month. Sir Ardenne Tyson will no doubt be 
entertaining at Chantry House — but you can’t very 
well vacate your benefice in three weeks ? ’ ’ 

” I have been thinking, my lord, that I ought not to 
be there then, and — it might — be a suitable time for me 
to take a short holiday.” 

” Quite so; that will get over the difficulty nicely,” 
said the Bishop. Very well then. Now come in and 
have a chat with my wife. That ’s what you want, 
Jerred — a sensible wife to stop you from trying to do 
impossible things. You bachelor parsons are so un- 
practical! ” 





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